LETTERS/^m 
aS  ELF-MADE 
MERCHANT 


V  GEORGE 
HORACE  LORIMER 


LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF 
CALIFORNIA 
SANTA  CRUZ 


Letters  from  a  Self-Mad e 

f      Merchant  to  his  Son 


"  Young  fellows  come  to  me 
looking  for  jobs  and  telling  me 
what  a  mean  bouse  they  have 
been  working  for." 


Letters  from 

A  Self-Made  Merchant 

To  His  Son 

Being  the  Letters  written  by  John  Graham, 

Head  of  the  House  of  Graham  &  Company, 

Pork-Packers  in  Chicago,  familiarly  known 

on  'Change  as  "  Old  Gorgon  Graham/'  to 

his  Son,  Pierrepont,  facetiously  known 

to  his  intimates  as  "  Piggy." 


Boston:  Small,  Maynard  &  Company:  1902 


Copyright,  1901-1902,  by 
THE  CURTIS  PUBLISHING  CO. 


Copyright,  1901-1902,  by 
GEORGE  HORACE  LORI  ME R 

Copyright,  1902,  by 
SMALL,  MAYNARD  &  COMPANY 

(Incorporated) 


Entered  at  Stationers'  Hall 


Twentieth  Thousand 


Published  October, 


Plates  by 

Printing  y  Publishing  Co. 
Albany,  U.  S.  A. 

Presswork  by 
The  University  Press, 
Cambridge,   U.  S.  A. 


PS 
3523 


1102 


TO 
CYRUS  CURTIS 

A    SELF-MADE     MAN 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

I.  From  John  Graham,  at  the  Union  Stock  Yards 
in   Chicago,   to   his    son,    Pierrepont,    at   Harvard 
University,  Cambridge,  Mass. 

Mr.  Pierrepont  has  just  become  a  member, 
in  good  and  regular  standing,  of  the  Fresh- 
man class.  •'..'.  .  .  .  .  1 

II.  From  John  Graham,  at  the  Union  Stock  Yards 
in   Chicago,    to   his    son,    Pierrepont,    at   Harvard 
University. 

Mr.  Pierrepont's  expense  account  has  just 
passed  under  his  father's  eye,  and  has  fur- 
nished him  with  a  text  for  some  plain  par- 
ticularities. .  .  .  .  .  .15 

III.  From  John  Graham,  at  the  Union  Stock  Yards 
in    Chicago,    to   his    son,    Pierrepont,    at   Harvard 
University. 

Mr.  Pierrepont  finds  Cambridge  to  his  liking, 
and  has  suggested  that  he  take  a  post-gradu- 
ate course  to  fill  up  some  gaps  which  he  has 
found  in  his  education.  ....  29 

IV.  From    John    Graham,    head    of    the    house    of 
Graham  &  Co.,  at  the  Union  Stock  Yards  in  Chi- 
cago, to  his  son,  Pierrepont  Graham,  at  the  Wal- 
dorf-Astoria,  in   New   York. 

Mr.  Pierrepont  has  suggested  the  grand  tour 

as  a  proper  finish  to  his  education.     .          .       45 

vii 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

V.  From    John    Graham,    head    of    the    house    of 
Graham  &  Co.,  at  the  Union  Stock  Yards  in  Chi- 
cago,   to    his    son,    Pierrepont    Graham,    at    Lake 
Moosgatchemawamuc,  in  the  Maine  woods. 

Mr.  Pierrepont  has  written  to  his  father 
withdrawing  his  suggestion.  ...  57 

VI.  From   John   Graham,   en   route   to   Texas,   to 
Pierrepont  Graham,  care  of  Graham  &  Co.,  Union 
Stock  Yards,  Chicago. 

Mr.  Pierrepont  has,  entirely  without  inten- 
tion, caused  a  little  confusion  in  the  mails, 
and  it  has  come  to  his  father's  notice  in 
the  course  of  business.  ....  69 

VII.  From  John  Graham,  at  the  Omaha  Branch 
of  Graham  &  Co.,  to  Pierrepont  Graham,  at  the 
Union  Stock  Yards,  Chicago. 

Mr.  Pierrepont  hasn't  found  the  methods 
of  the  worthy  Milligan  altogether  to  his  li- 
king, and  he  has  commented  rather  freely 
on  them.  .  .....  81 

VIII.  From  John  Graham,  at  Hot  Springs,  Arkan- 
sas, to  his   son,   Pierrepont,   at  the  Union   Stock 
Yards  in  Chicago. 

Mr.  Pierrepont  has  just  been  promoted  from 
the  mailing  to  the  billing  desk  and,  in  con- 
sequence, his  father  is  feeling  rather  "  mel- 
low "  toward  him.  .  .  .  .  .93 

viii 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

IX.  From  John  Graham,  at  Hot  Springs,  Arkan- 
sas,  to   his   son,   Pierrepont,   at  the   Union   Stock 
Yards  in  Chicago. 

Mr.  Pierrepont  has  been  investing  more 
heavily  in  roses  than  his  father  thinks  his 
means  warrant,  and  he  tries  to  turn  his 
thoughts  to  staple  groceries.  .  .  .  113 

X.  From  John  Graham,  at  the  Union  Stock  Yards 
in  Chicago,   to  his   son,   Pierrepont,   at  the   Com- 
mercial  House,   Jeffersonville,   Indiana. 

Mr.  Pierrepont  has  been  promoted  to  the 
position  of  traveling  salesman  for  the  house, 
and  has  started  out  on  the  road.  .  .127 

XI.  From  John  Graham,  at  the  Union  Stock  Yards 
in  Chicago,  to  his  son,  Pierrepont,  at  The  Plant- 
ers' Palace  Hotel,  at  Big  Gap,  Kentucky. 

Mr.  Pierrepont's  orders  are  small  and  his 
expenses  are  large,  so  his  father  feels  pessi- 
mistic over  his  prospects.  .  .  .  141 

XII.  From  John  Graham,  at  the  Union  Stock  Yards 
in  Chicago,  to  his  son,  Pierrepont,  at  Little  Del- 
monico's,  Prairie  Centre,  Indiana. 

Mr.  Pierrepont  has  annoyed  his  father  by 
accepting  his  criticisms  in  a  spirit  of  gentle, 
but  most  reprehensible,  resignation.  .  .  157 

XIII.  From   John    Graham,    at    the    Union    Stock 
Yards  in  Chicago,  to  his  son,  Pierrepont,  care  of 
The  Hoosier  Grocery  Co.,  Indianapolis,  Indiana. 

Mr.  Pierrepont's  orders  have  been  looking 
up,  so  the  old  man  gives  him  a  pat  on  the 
back — but  not  too  hard  a  one.  .  .  .  177 

ix 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

XIV.  From    John    Graham,    at    the    Union    Stock 
Yards  in  Chicago,  to  his  son,  Pierrepont,  at  The 
Travelers'   Rest,  New  Albany,   Indiana. 

Mr.  Pierrepont  has  taken  a  little  flyer  in 
short  ribs  on  'Change,  and  has  accidentally 
come  into  the  line  of  his  father's  vision.  .  191 

XV.  From    John    Graham,    at    the    Union    Stock 
Yards  in  Chicago,  to  his  son,  Pierrepont,  at  The 
Scrub  Oaks,  Spring  Lake,  Michigan. 

Mr.  Pierrepont  has  been  promoted  again,  and 
the  old  man  sends  him  a  little  advice  with 
his  appointment.  .....  209 

XVI.  From  John  Graham,  at  the  Schweitzerkasen- 
hof,  Karlsbad,  Austria,  to  his  son,  Pierrepont,  at 
the  Union  Stock  Yards,  Chicago. 

Mr.  Pierrepont  has  shoivn  mild  symptoms 
of  an  attack  of  society  fever,  and  his  father 
is  administering  some  simple  remedies.  .  223 

XVII.  From  John  Graham,  at  the  London  House 
of  Graham  &  Co.,  to  his  son,  Pierrepont,  at  the 
Union  Stock  Yards  in  Chicago. 

Mr.  Pierrepont  has  written  his  father  that 
he  is  getting  along  famously  in  his  new 
place 243 

XVIII.  From  John  Graham,  at  the  London  House 
of  Graham  &  Co.,  to  his  son,  Pierrepont,  at  the 
Union  Stock  Yards  in  Chicago. 

Mr.  Pierrepont  is  worried  over  rumors  that 
the  old  man  is  a  bear  on  lard  and  that  the 
longs  are  about  to  make  him  climb  a  tree.  259 

X 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

XIX.  From  John  Graham,  at  the  New  York  house 
of  Graham  &  Co.,  to  his  son,  Pierrepont,  at  the 
Union  Stock  Yards  in  Chicago. 

The  old  man,  on  the  voyage  home,  has  met 
a  girl  who  interests  him  and  who  in  turn 
seems  to  be  interested  in  Mr.  Pierrepont.  275 

XX.  From   John    Graham,    at    the    Boston    House 
of  Graham  &  Co.,  to  his  son,  Pierrepont,  at  the 
Union  Stock  Yards  in  Chicago. 

Mr.  Pierrepont  has  told  the  old  man  "  what's 
what  "  and  received  a  limited  blessing.  .  301 


XI 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

By  F.  R.   GRUGER   and  B.    MARTIN  JUSTICE 

1.  "  Young  fellows  come  to  me  looking  for  jobs 

and  telling  me  what  a  mean  house  they 
have  been  working  for."  .  .  Frontispiece 

Facing  p. 

2.  "  Old  Doc  Hoover  asked  me  right  out  in  Sun- 

day School  if  I  didn't  want  to  be  saved."        4 

3.  "  I  have  seen  hundreds  of  boys  go  to  Europe 

who  didn't  bring  back  a  great  deal  ex- 
cept a  few  trunks  of  badly  fitting 
clothes." 20 

4.  "  I  put  Jim  Durham  on  the  road  to  introduce 

a     new     product."  ....       38 

5.  "  Old  Dick  Stover  was  the  worst  hand  at  pro- 

crastinating that  I  ever  saw."         .          .       50 

6.  "  Charlie  Chase  told  me  he  was  President  of 

the  Klondike  Exploring,  Gold  Prospecting, 

and    Immigration    Company."  .          .       62 

7.  "  Jim  Donnelly,  of  the  Donnelly  Provision  Com- 

pany, came  into  my  office  with  a  fool  grin 

on    his    fat    face."  .          .          .          .72 

8.  "  Bill    Budlong   was   always   the   last   man   to 

come   up   to   the   mourners'   bench."         .        84 

9.  "  Clarence   looked   to   me   like   another   of   his 

father's  bad  breaks."         ....       98 

xiii 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


Facing  p. 

10.  "  You  looked  so  blamed  important  and  chesty 

when   you    started    off."         .          .          .128 

11.  "Josh  Jenkinson  would  eat  a  little  food  now 

and  then  just  to  be  sociable,  but  what  he 
really  lived  on  was  tobacco."     .          .          .     146 

12.  "  Herr    Doctor    Paracelsus    Von    Munsterberg 

was  a  pretty  high-toned  article."     .          .166 

13.  "  When   John   L.    Sullivan   went   through   the 

stock  yards  it  just  simply  shut  down  the 
plant." 184 

14.  "I  started  in  to  curl  up  that  young  fellow 

to    a    crisp." 200 

15.  "A  good  many  salesmen  have  an  idea  that  buy- 

ers are  only  interested  in  funny  stories."    216 

16.  "Jim   Hicks   dared   Fatty   Wilkins   to   eat   a 

piece  of  dirt." 248 

17.  "  Elder  Hoover  was  accounted  a  powerful  ex- 

horter  in  our  parts."         .          .          .          .268 

18.  "Miss  Curzon,  with  one  of  his  roses  in  her 

hair,  watching  him  from  a  corner."         .     294 


XIV 


No,  1 


FROM  John  Graham, 
at  the  Union  Stock 
Yards  in  Chicago, 
to  his  son,  Pierrepont,  at 
Harvard  University,  Cam- 
bridge, Mass.  Mr.  Pierre- 
pont has  just  been  settled 
by  his  mother  as  a  mem- 
ber, in  good  and  regular 
standing,  of  the  Freshman 
class. 


LETTERS/™^  a  SELF-MADE 
MERCHANT  to  his  SON 

I 
CHICAGO,  October  1,  189 — 

Dear  Pierrepont:  Your  Ma  got  back  safe 
this  morning  and  she  wants  me  to  be  sure  to 
tell  you  not  to  over-study,  and  I  want  to 
tell  you  to  be  sure  not  to  under-study.  What 
we're  really  sending  you  to  Harvard  for  is 
to  get  a  little  of  the  education  that's  so  good 
and  plenty  there.  When  it's  passed  around 
you  don't  want  to  be  bashful,  but  reach  right 
out  and  take  a  big  helping  every  time,  for  I 
want  you  to  get  your  share.  You'll  find 
that  education's  about  the  only  thing  lying 
around  loose  in  this  world,  and  that  it's 
about  the  only  thing  a  fellow  can  have  as 
much  of  as  he's  willing  to  haul  away. 
Everything  else  is  screwed  down  tight  and 
the  screw-driver  lost. 

I  didn't  have  your  advantages  when  I  was 
a  boy,  and  you  can't  have  mine.    Some  men 
I 


A  SELF-MADE  MERCHANTS 

learn  the  value  of  money  by  not  having  any 
and  starting  out  to  pry  a  few  dollars  loose 
from  the  odd  millions  that  are  lying 
around;  and  some  learn  it  by  having  fifty 
thousand  or  so  left  to  them  and  starting  out 
to  spend  it  as  if  it  were  fifty  thousand  a 
year.  Some  men  learn  the  value  of  truth  by 
having  to  do  business  with  liars;  and  some 
by  going  to  Sunday  School.  Some  men 
learn  the  cussedness  of  whiskey  by  having  a 
drunken  father ;  and  some  by  having  a  good 
mother.  Some  men  get  an  education  from 
other  men  and  newspapers  and  public  li- 
braries; and  some  get  it  from  professors  and 
parchments — it  doesn't  make  any  special 
difference  how  you  get  a  half-nelson  on  the 
right  thing,  just  so  you  get  it  and  freeze  on 
to  it.  The  package  doesn't  count  after  the 
eye's  been  attracted  by  it,  and  in  the  end  it 
finds  its  way  to  the  ash  heap.  It's  the  qual- 
ity of  the  goods  inside  which  tells,  when 
they  once  get  into  the  kitchen  and  up  to 
the  cook. 

2 


LETTERS  TO  HIS  SON 

You  can  cure  a  ham  in  dry  salt  and  you 
can  cure  it  in  sweet  pickle,  and  when  you're 
through  you've  got  pretty  good  eating  either 
way,  provided  you  started  in  with  a  sound 
ham.  If  you  didn't,  it  doesn't  make  any 
special  difference  how  you  cured  it — the 
ham-tryer's  going  to  strike  the  sour  spot 
around  the  bone.  And  it  doesn't  make  any 
difference  how  much  sugar  and  fancy  pickle 
you  soak  into  a  fellow,  he's  no  good  unless 
he's  sound  and  sweet  at  the  core. 

The  first  thing  that  any  education  ought 
to  give  a  man  is  character,  and  the  second 
thing  is  education.  That  is  where  I'm  a 
little  skittish  about  this  college  business. 
I'm  not  starting  in  to  preach  to  you,  because 
I  know  a  young  fellow  with  the  right  sort 
of  stuff  in  him  preaches  to  himself  harder 
than  any  one  else  can,  and  that  he's  mighty 
often  switched  off  the  right  path  by  having 
it  pointed  out  to  him  in  the  wrong  way. 

I  remember  when  I  was  a  boy,  and  I 
wasn't  a  very  bad  boy,  as  boys  go,  old  Doc 

3 


A  SELF-MADE  MERCHANT'S 

Hoover  got  a  notion  in  his  head  that  I  ought 
to  join  the  church,  and  he  scared  me  out  of  it 
for  five  years  by  asking  me  right  out  loud  in 
Sunday  School  if  I  didn't  want  to  be  saved, 
and  then  laying  for  me  after  the  service 
and  praying  with  me.  Of  course  I  wanted 
to  be  saved,  but  I  didn't  want  to  be  saved 
quite  so  publicly. 

When  a  boy's  had  a  good  mother  he's  got 
a  good  conscience,  and  when  he's  got  a  good 
conscience  he  don't  need  to  have  right  and 
wrong  labeled  for  him.  Now  that  your  Ma's 
left  and  the  apron  strings  are  cut,  you're 
naturally  running  up  against  a  new  sensa- 
tion every  minute,  but  if  you'll  simply  use 
a  little  conscience  as  a  tryer,  and  probe  into 
a  thing  which  looks  sweet  and  sound  on 
the  skin,  to  see  if  you  can't  fetch  up  a  sour 
smell  from  around  the  bone,  you'll  be  all 
right. 

I'm  anxious  that  you  should  be  a  good 
scholar,  but  I'm  more  anxious  that  you 
should  be  a  good  clean  man.  And  if  you 

4 


"  Old  Doc  Hoover  asked  me  right 
out  in  Sunday  School  if  I  didn't  want 
to  be  saved." 


LETTERS  TO  HIS  SON 

graduate  with  a  sound  conscience,  I  shan't 
care  so  much  if  there  are  a  few  holes  in 
your  Latin.  There  are  two  parts  of  a  col- 
lege education — the  part  that  you  get  in  the 
schoolroom  from  the  professors,  and  the 
part  that  you  get  outside  of  it  from  the 
boys.  That's  the  really  important  part. 
For  the  first  can  only  make  you  a  scholar, 
while  the  second  can  make  you  a  man. 

Education's  a  good  deal  like  eating — a  fel- 
low can't  always  tell  which  particular  thing 
did  him  good,  but  he  can  usually  tell  which 
one  did  him  harm.  After  a  square  meal  of 
roast  beef  and  vegetables,  and  mince  pie 
and  watermelon,  you  can't  say  just  which 
ingredient  is  going  into  muscle,  but  you 
don't  have  to  be  very  bright  to  figure  out 
which  one  started  the  demand  for  pain- 
killer in  your  insides,  or  to  guess,  next 
morning,  which  one  made  you  believe  in.  a 
personal  devil  the  night  before.  And  so, 
while  a  fellow  can't  figure  out  to  an  ounce 
whether  it's  Latin  or  algebra  or  history  or 

5 


A  SELF-MADE  MERCHANT'S 

what  among  the  solids  that  is  building  him 
up  in  this  place  or  that,  he  can  go  right 
along  feeding  them  in  and  betting  that 
they're  not  the  things  that  turn  his  tongue 
fuzzy.  It's  down  among  the  sweets,  among 
his  amusements  and  recreations,  that  he's 
going  to  find  his  stomach-ache,  and  it's 
there  that  he  wants  to  go  slow  and  to  pick 
and  choose. 

It's  not  the  first  half,  but  the  second  half 
of  a  college  education  which  merchants 
mean  when  they  ask  if  a  college  education 
pays.  It's  the  Willie  and  the  Bertie  boys; 
the  chocolate  eclair  and  tutti-frutti  boys; 
the  la-de-dah  and  the  baa-baa-billy-goat 
boys;  the  high  cock-a-lo-rum  and  the  cock- 
a-doodle-do  boys;  the  Bah  Jove!,  hair- 
parted  -  in  -  the  -  middle,  cigaroot  -  smoking, 
Champagne-Charlie,  up-all-night-and-in-all- 
day  boys  that  make  'em  doubt  the  cash 
value  of  the  college  output,  and  overlook  the 
roast-beef  and  blood-gravy  boys,  the  shirt- 
sleeves and  high-water-pants  boys,  who  take 
6 


LETTERS  TO  HIS  SON 

their  college  education  and  make  some  fel- 
low's business  hum  with  it. 

Does  a  College  education  pay?  Does  it 
pay  to  feed  in  pork  trimmings  at  five  cents 
a  pound  at  the  hopper  and  draw  out  nice, 
cunning,  little  "  country "  sausages  at 
twenty  cents  a  pound  at  the  other  end? 
Does  it  pay  to  take  a  steer  that's  been  run- 
ning loose  on  the  range  and  living  on  cactus 
and  petrified  wood  till  he's  just  a  bunch  of 
barb-wire  and  sole-leather,  and  feed  him 
corn  till  he's  just  a  solid  hunk  of  porter- 
house steak  and  oleo  oil? 

You  bet  it  pays.  Anything  that  trains  a 
boy  to  think  and  to  think  quick  pays;  any- 
thing that  teaches  a  boy  to  get  the  answer 
before  the  other  fellow  gets  through  biting 
the  pencil,  pays. 

College  doesn't  make  fools;  it  develops 
them.  It  doesn't  make  bright  men;  it  de- 
velops them.  A  fool  will  turn  out  a  fool, 
whether  he  goes  to  college  or  not,  though 
he'll  probably  turn  out  a  different  sort  of  a 

7 


A  SELF-MADE  MERCHANT'S 

fool.  And  a  good,  strong  boy  will  turn  out 
a  bright,  strong  man  whether  he's  worn 
smooth  in  the  grab-what-you-want-and-eat- 
standing  -  with  -  one  -  eye  -  skinned  -  for-the- 
dog  school  of  the  streets  and  stores,  or 
polished  up  and  slicked  down  in  the  give- 
your  -  order  -  to  •  the  -  waiter  -  and  -  get  -  a- 
sixteen  -  course  -  dinner  school  of  the  pro- 
fessors. But  while  the  lack  of  a  college  edu- 
cation can't  keep  No.  1  down,  having  it 
boosts  No.  2  up. 

It's  simply  the  difference  between  jump 
in,  rough-and-tumble,  kick-with-the-heels- 
and-butt-with-the-head  nigger  fighting,  and 
this  grin-and-look-pleasant,  dodge-and-save- 
your  -  wind  -  till  -  you  -  see  -  a  -  chance  -  to- 
land-on-the-solar-plexus  style  of  the  trained 
athlete.  Both  styles  win  fights,  but  the  fel- 
low with  a  little  science  is  the  better  man, 
providing  he's  kept  his  muscle  hard.  If  he 
hasn't,  he's  in  a  bad  way,  for  his  fancy  spar- 
ring is  just  going  to  aggravate  the  other 
fellow  so  that  he'll  eat  him  up. 
8 


LETTERS  TO  HIS  SON 

Of  course,  some  men  are  like  pigs,  the 
more  you  educate  them,  the  more  amusing 
little  cusses  they  become,  and  the  funnier 
capers  they  cut  when  they  show  off  their 
tricks.  Naturally,  the  place  to  send  a  boy 
of  that  breed  is  to  the  circus,  not  to  college. 

Speaking  of  educated  pigs,  naturally 
calls  to  mind  the  case  of  old  man  Whitaker 
and  his  son,  Stanley.  I  used  to  know  the 
old  man  mighty  well  ten  years  ago.  He 
was  one  of  those  men  whom  business  nar- 
rows, instead  of  broadens.  Didn't  get  any 
special  fun  out  of  his  work,  but  kept  right 
along  at  it  because  he  didn't  know  anything 
else.  Told  me  he'd  had  to  root  for  a  living 
all  his  life  and  that  he  proposed  to  have 
Stan's  brought  to  him  in  a  pail.  Sent  him 
to  private  schools  and  dancing  schools  and 
colleges  and  universities,  and  then  shipped 
him  to  Oxford  to  soak  in  a  little  "  atmos- 
phere," as  he  put  it.  I  never  could  quite  lay 
hold  of  that  atmosphere  dodge  by  the  tail, 
but  so  far  as  I  could  make  out,  the  idea  was 

9 


A  SELF-MADE  MERCHANTS 

that  there  was  something  in  the  air  of  the 
Oxford  ham-house  that  gave  a  fellow  an 
extra  fancy  smoke. 

Well,  about  the  time  Stan  was  through, 
the  undertaker  called  by  for  the  old  man, 
and  when  his  assets  were  boiled  down  and 
the  water  drawn  off,  there  wasn't  enough 
left  to  furnish  Stan  with  a  really  nourish- 
ing meal.  I  had  a  talk  with  Stan  about 
what  he  was  going  to  do,  but  some  ways  he 
didn't  strike  me  as  having  the  making  of  a 
good  private  of  industry,  let  alone  a  cap- 
tain, so  I  started  in  to  get  him  a  job  that 
would  suit  his  talents.  Got  him  in  a  bank, 
but  while  he  knew  more  about  the  history 
of  banking  than  the  president,  and  more 
about  political  economy  than  the  board  of 
directors,  he  couldn't  learn  the  difference 
between  a  fiver  that  the  Government  turned 
out  and  one  that  was  run  off  on  a  hand 
press  in  a  Halsted  Street  basement.  Got 
him  a  job  on  a  paper,  but  while  he  knew  six 
different  languages  and  all  the  facts  about 
10 


LETTERS  TO  HIS  SON 

the  Arctic  regions,  and  the  history  of  danc- 
ing from  the  days  of  Old  Adam  down  to 
those  of  Old  Nick,  he  couldn't  write  up  a 
satisfactory  account  of  the  Ice-Men's  Ball. 
Could  prove  that  two  and  two  made  four 
by  trigonometry  and  geometry,  but  couldn't 
learn  to  keep  books;  was  thick  as  thieves 
with  all  the  high-toned  poets,  but  couldn't 
write  a  good,  snappy,  merchantable  street- 
car ad.;  knew  a  thousand  diseases  that 
would  take  a  man  off  before  he  could  blink, 
but  couldn't  sell  a  thousand-dollar  tontine 
policy;  knew  the  lives  of  our  Presidents  as 
well  as  if  he'd  been  raised  with  them,  but 
couldn't  place  a  set  of  the  Library  of  the 
Fathers  of  the  Republic,  though  they  were 
offered  on  little  easy  payments  that  made 
them  come  as  easy  as  borrowing  them  from 
a  friend.  Finally  I  hit  on  what  seemed  to 
be  just  the  right  thing.  I  figured  out  that 
any  fellow  who  had  such  a  heavy  stock  of 
information  on  hand,  ought  to  be  able  to  job 
it  out  to  good  advantage,  and  so  I  got  him 
II 


A  MERCHANT'S  LETTERS 

a  place  teaching.  But  it  seemed  that  he'd 
learned  so  much  about  the  best  way  of 
teaching  boys,  that  he  told  his  principal 
right  on  the  jump  that  he  was  doing  it  all 
wrong,  and  that  made  him  sore;  and  he 
knew  so  much  about  the  dead  languages, 
which  was  what  he  was  hired  to  teach,  that 
he  forgot  he  was  handling  live  boys,  and  as 
he  couldn't  tell  it  all  to  them  in  the  regular 
time,  he  kept  them  after  hours,  and  that 
made  them  sore  and  put  Stan  out  of  a  job 
again.  The  last  I  heard  of  him  he  was  writ- 
ing articles  on  Why  Young  Men  Fail,  and 
making  a  success  of  it,  because  failing  was 
the  one  subject  on  which  he  was  practical. 
I  simply  mention  Stan  in  passing  as  an 
example  of  the  fact  that  it  isn't  so  much 
knowing  a  whole  lot,  as  knowing  a  little 
and  how  to  use  it  that  counts. 

Your  affectionate  father, 

JOHN  GRAHAM. 


No,  2 


FROM  John  Graham, 
at  the  Union  Stock 
Yards  in  Chicago, 
to  his  son,  Pierrepont,  at 
Harvard  University. 
Mr.  Pierrepont's  expense 
account  has  just  passed 
under  his  father's  eye, 
and  has  furnished  him 
with  a  text  for  some  plain 
particularities. 


II 

CHICAGO,  May  4,  189— 
Dear  Pierrepont:  The  cashier  has  just 
handed  me  your  expense  account  for  the 
month,  and  it  fairly  makes  a  fellow  hump- 
shouldered  to  look  it  over.  When  I  told 
you  that  I  wished  you  to  get  a  liberal  edu- 
cation, I  didn't  mean  that  I  wanted  to  buy 
Cambridge.  Of  course  the  bills  won't  break 
me,  but  they  will  break  you  unless  you  are 
very,  very  careful. 

I  have  noticed  for  the  last  two  years  that 
your  accounts  have  been  growing  heavier 
every  month,  but  I  haven't  seen  any  signs 
of  your  taking  honors  to  justify  the  in- 
creased operating  expenses ;  and  that  is  bad 
business — a  good  deal  like  feeding  his 
weight  in  corn  to  a  scalawag  steer  that 
won't  fat  up. 

I  haven't  said  anything  about  this  before, 
as  I  trusted  a  good  deal  to  your  native  com- 
mon-sense to  keep  you  from  making  a  fool 

15 


A  SELF-MADE  MERCHANT'S 

of  yourself  in  the  way  that  some  of  these 
young  fellows  who  haven't  had  to  work  for 
it  do.  But  because  I  have  sat  tight,  I 
don't  want  you  to  get  it  into  your  head  that 
the  old  man's  rich,  and  that  he  can  stand 
it,  because  he  won't  stand  it  after  you  leave 
college.  The  sooner  you  adjust  your  spend- 
ing to  what  your  earning  capacity  will  be, 
the  easier  they  will  find  it  to  live  together. 
The  only  sure  way  that  a  man  can  get 
rich  quick  is  to  have  it  given  to  him  or  to 
inherit  it.  You  are  not  going  to  get  rich 
that  way — at  least,  not  until  after  you  have 
proved  your  ability  to  hold  a  pretty  impor- 
tant position  with  the  firm ;  and,  of  course, 
there  is  just  one  place  from  which  a  man 
can  start  for  that  position  with  Graham  & 
Co.  It  doesn't  make  any  difference  whether 
he  is  the  son  of  the  old  man  or  of  the  cellar 
boss — that  place  is  the  bottom.  And  the 
bottom  in  the  office  end  of  this  business  is  a 
seat  at  the  mailing-desk,  with  eight  dollars 
every  Saturday  night. 
16 


LETTERS  TO  HIS  SON 

I  can't  hand  out  any  ready-made  success 
to  you.  It  would  do  you  no  good,  and  it 
would  do  the  house  harm.  There  is  plenty 
of  room  at  the  top  here,  but  there  is  no 
elevator  in  the  building.  Starting,  as  you 
do,  with  a  good  education,  you  should 
be  able  to  climb  quicker  than  the  fellow 
who  hasn't  got  it;  but  there's  going  to  be 
a  time  when  you  begin  at  the  factory  when 
you  won't  be  able  to  lick  stamps  so  fast  as 
the  other  boys  at  the  desk.  Yet  the  man 
who  hasn't  licked  stamps  isn't  fit  to  write 
letters.  Naturally,  that  is  the  time  when 
knowing  whether  the  pie  comes  before  the 
ice-cream,  and  how  to  run  an  automobile 
isn't  going  to  be  of  any  real  use  to  you. 

I  simply  mention  these  things  because  I 
am  afraid  your  ideas  as  to  the  basis  on 
which  you  are  coming  with  the  house  have 
swelled  up  a  little  in  the  East.  I  can  give 
you  a  start,  but  after  that  you  will  have  to 
dynamite  your  way  to  the  front  by  yourself. 
It  is  all  with  the  man.  If  you  gave  some 


A  SELF-MADE  MERCHANTS 

fellows  a  talent  wrapped  in  a  napkin  to 
start  with  in  business,  they  would  swap  the 
talent  for  a  gold  brick  and  lose  the  napkin ; 
and  there  are  others  that  you  could  start 
out  with  just  a  napkin,  who  would  set  up 
with  it  in  the  dry-goods  business  in  a  small 
way,  and  then  coax  the  other  fellow's  talent 
into  it. 

I  have  pride  enough  to  believe  that  you 
have  the  right  sort  of  stuff  in  you,  but  I 
want  to  see  some  of  it  come  out.  You  will 
never  make  a  good  merchant  of  yourself  by 
reversing  the  order  in  which  the  Lord  de- 
creed that  we  should  proceed — learning  the 
spending  before  the  earning  end  of  business. 
Pay  day  is  always  a  month  off  for  the  spend- 
thrift, and  he  is  never  able  to  realize  more 
than  sixty  cents  on  any  dollar  that  comes 
to  him.  But  a  dollar  is  worth  one  hundred 
and  six  cents  to  a  good  business  man,  and 
he  never  spends  the  dollar.  It's  the  man 
who  keeps  saving  up  and  expenses  down 
that  buys  an  interest  in  the  concern.  That 
18 


LETTERS  TO  HIS  SON 

is  where  you  are  going  to  find  yourself  weak 
if  your  expense  accounts  don't  lie ;  and  they 
generally  don't  lie  in  that  particular  way, 
though  Baron  Munchausen  was  the  first 
traveling  man,  and  iny  drummers'  bills  still 
show  his  influence. 

I  know  that  when  a  lot  of  young  men 
get  off  by  themselves,  some  of  them  think 
that  recklessness  with  money  brands  them 
as  good  fellows,  and  that  carefulness  is 
meanness.  That  is  the  one  end  of  a  college 
education  which  is  pure  cussedness;  and 
that  is  the  one  thing  which  makes  nine 
business  men  out  of  ten  hesitate  to  send 
their  boys  off  to  school.  But  on  the  other 
hand,  that  is  the  spot  where  a  young  man 
has  the  chance  to  show  that  he  is  not  a 
lightweight.  I  know  that  a  good  many 
people-  say  I  am  a  pretty  close  proposi- 
tion; that  I  make  every  hog  which  goes 
through  my  packing-house  give  up  more 
lard  than  the  Lord  gave  him  gross  weight; 
that  I  have  improved  on  Nature  to  the  ex- 

19 


A  SELF-MADE  MERCHANT'S 

tent  of  getting  four  hams  out  of  an  animal 
which  began  life  with  two;  but  you  have 
lived  with  me  long  enough  to  know  that 
my  hand  is  usually  in  my  pocket  at  the  right 
time. 

Now  I  want  to  say  right  here  that  the 
meanest  man  alive  is  the  one  who  is  gener- 
ous with  money  that  he  has  not  had  to 
sweat  for,  and  that  the  boy  who  is  a  good 
fellow  at  some  one  else's  expense  would  not 
work  up  into  first-class  fertilizer.  That 
same  ambition  to  be  known  as  a  good  fellow 
has  crowded  my  office  with  second-rate 
clerks,  and  they  always  will  be  second-rate 
clerks.  If  you  have  it,  hold  it  down  until 
you  have  worked  for  a  year.  Then,  if  your 
ambition  runs  to  hunching  up  all  week  over 
a  desk,  to  earn  eight  dollars  to  blow  on  a 
few  rounds  of  drinks  for  the  boys  on  Satur- 
day night,  there  is  no  objection  to  your 
gratifying  it;  for  I  will  know  that  the  Lord 
didn't  intend  you  to  be  your  own  boss. 

You  know  how  I  began — I  was  started  off 

20 


"  I  have  seen  hundreds  of  boys 
go  to  Europe  who  didn't  bring 
back  a  great  deal  except  a  few 
trunks  of  badly  fitting  clothes." 


LETTERS  TO  HIS  SON 

with  a  kick,  but  that  proved  a  kick  up,  and 
in  the  end  every  one  since  has  lifted  me  a 
little  bit  higher.  I  got  two  dollars  a  week, 
and  slept  under  the  counter,  and  you  can 
bet  I  knew  just  how  many  pennies  there 
were  in  each  of  those  dollars,  and  how  hard 
the  floor  was.  That  is  what  you  have  got  to 
learn. 

I  remember  when  I  was  on  the  Lakes,  our 
schooner  was  passing  out  through  the  draw 
at  Buffalo  when  I  saw  little  Bill  Riggs,  the 
butcher,  standing  up  above  me  on  the  end  of 
the  bridge  with  a  big  roast  of  beef  in  his 
basket.  They  were  a  little  short  in  the  gal- 
ley on  that  trip,  so  I  called  up  to  Bill  and  he 
threw  the  roast  down  to  me.  I  asked  him 
how  much,  and  he  yelled  back,  "  about  a 
dollar."  That  was  mighty  good  beef,  and 
when  we  struck  Buffalo  again  on  the  return 
trip,  I  thought  I  would  like  a  little  more  of 
it.  So  I  went  up  to  BilFs  shop  and  asked 
him  for  a  piece  of  the  same.  But  this  time 
he  gave  me  a  little  roast,  not  near  so  big  as 
21 


A  SELF-MADE  MERCHANTS 

the  other,  and  it  was  pretty  tough  and 
stringy.  But  when  I  asked  him  how  much, 
he  answered  "  about  a  dollar."  He  simply 
didn't  have  any  sense  of  values,  and  that's 
the  business  man's  sixth  sense.  Bill  has  al- 
ways been  a  big,  healthy,  hard-working 
man,  but  to-day  he  is  very,  very  poor. 

The  Bills  ain't  all  in  the  butcher  business. 
I've  got  some  of  them  right  now  in  my  office, 
but  they  will  never  climb  over  the  railing 
that  separates  the  clerks  from  the  execu- 
tives. Yet  if  they  would  put  in  half  the 
time  thinking  for  the  house  that  they  give 
up  to  hatching  out  reasons  why  they  ought 
to  be  allowed  to  overdraw  their  salary  ac- 
counts, I  couldn't  keep  them  out  of  our  pri- 
vate offices  with  a  pole-ax,  and  I  wouldn't 
want  to ;  for  they  could  double  their  salaries 
and  my  profits  in  a  year.  But  I  always  lay 
it  down  as  a  safe  proposition  that  the  fellow 
who  has  to  break  open  the  baby's  bank  to- 
ward the  last  of  the  week  for  car-fare  isn't 
going  to  be  any  Eussell  Sage  when  it  comes 

22 


LETTERS  TO  HIS  SON 

to  trading  with  the  old  man's  money.  He'd 
punch  my  bank  account  as  full  of  holes  as  a 
carload  of  wild  Texans  would  a  fool  stock- 
man that  they'd  got  in  a  corner. 

Now  I  know  you'll  say  that  I  don't  un- 
derstand how  it  is;  that  you've  got  to  do  as 
the  other  fellows  do;  and  that  things  have 
changed  since  I  was  a  boy.  There's  nothing 
in  it.  Adam  invented  all  the  different  ways 
in  wrhich  a  young  man  can  make  a  fool  of 
himself,  and  the  college  yell  at  the  end  of 
them  is  just  a  frill  that  doesn't  change  es- 
sentials. The  boy  who  does  anything  just 
because  the  other  fellows  do  it  is  apt  to 
scratch  a  poor  man's  back  all  his  life.  He's 
the  chap  that's  buying  wheat  at  ninety- 
seven  cents  the  day  before  the  market 
breaks.  They  call  him  "the  country"  in 
the  market  reports,  but  the  city's  full  of 
him.  It's  the  fellow  who  has  the  spunk  to 
think  and  act  for  himself,  and  sells  short 
when  prices  hit  the  high  C  and  the  house  is 
standing  on  its  hind  legs  yelling  for  more, 


A  SELF-MADE  MERCHANTS 

that  sits  in  the  directors'  meetings  when  he 
gets  on  toward  forty. 

We've  got  an  old  steer  out  at  the  packing- 
house that  stands  around  at  the  foot  of  the 
runway  leading  up  to  the  killing  pens,  look- 
ing for  all  the  world  like  one  of  the  village 
fathers  sitting  on  the  cracker  box  before  the 
grocery — sort  of  sad-eyed,  dreamy  old  cuss 
— always  has  two  or  three  straws  from  his 
cud  sticking  out  of  the  corner  of  his  mouth. 
You  never  saw  a  steer  that  looked  as  if  he 
took  less  interest  in  things.  But  by  and  by 
the  boys  drive  a  bunch  of  steers  toward  him, 
or  cows  maybe,  if  we're  canning,  and  then 
you'll  see  Old  Abe  move  off  up  that  runway, 
sort  of  beckoning  the  bunch  after  him  with 
that  wicked  old  stump  of  a  tail  of  his,  as  if 
there  was  something  mighty  interesting  to 
steers  at  the  top,  and  something  that  every 
Texan  and  Colorado,  raw  from  the  prairies, 
ought  to  have  a  look  at  to  put  a  metropoli- 
tan  finish  on  him.  Those  steers  just  natur- 
ally follow  along  on  up  that  runway  and 
24 


LETTERS  TO  HIS  SON 

into  the  killing  pens.  But  just  as  they  get 
to  the  top,  Old  Abe,  someways,  gets  lost  in 
the  crowd,  and  he  isn't  among  those  present 
when  the  gates  are  closed  and  the  real 
trouble  begins  for  his  new  friends. 

I  never  saw  a  dozen  boys  together  that 
there  wasn't  an  Old  Abe  among  them.  If 
you  find  your  crowd  following  him,  keep 
away  from  it.  There  are  times  when  it's 
safest  to  be  lonesome.  Use  a  little  common- 
sense,  caution  and  conscience.  You  can 
stock  a  store  with  those  three  commodities, 
when  you  get  enough  of  them.  But  you've 
got  to  begin  getting  them  young.  They 
ain't  catching  after  you  toughen  up  a 
bit. 

You  needn't  write  me  if  you  feel  your- 
self getting  them.  The  symptoms  will  show 
in  your  expense  account,  Good-by;  life's 
too  short  to  write  letters  and  New  York's 
calling  me  on  the  wire. 

Your  affectionate  father, 

JOHN  GRAHAM. 

25 


No,  3 


FROM  John  Graham, 
at  the  Union  Stock 
Yards  in  Chicago, 
to  his  son,  Pierrepont,  at 
Harvard  University. 
Mr.  Pierrepont  finds  Cam- 
bridge to  his  liking,  and 
has  suggested  that  he  take 
a  post-graduate  course  to 
fill  up  some  gaps  which  he 
has  found  in  his  education. 


Ill 

June  1,  189 — 

Dear  Pierrepont:  No,  I  can't  say  that  I 
think  anything  of  your  post-graduate  course 
idea.  You're  not  going  to  be  a  poet  or  a 
professor,  but  a  packer,  and  the  place  to 
take  a  post-graduate  course  for  that  calling 
is  in  the  packing-house.  Some  men  learn 
all  they  know  from  books ;  others  from  life ; 
both  kinds  are  narrow.  The  first  are  all 
theory ;  the  second  are  all  practice.  It's  the 
fellow  who  knows  enough  about  practice  to 
test  his  theories  for  blow-holes  that  gives 
the  world  a  shove  ahead,  and  finds  a  fair 
margin  of  profit  in  shoving  it. 

There's  a  chance  for  everything  you  have 
learned,  from  Latin  to  poetry,  in  the  pack- 
ing business,  though  we  don't  use  much 
poetry  here  except  in  our  street-car  ads., 
and  about  the  only  time  our  products  are 
given  Latin  names  is  when  the  State  Board 
of  Health  condemns  them.  So  I  think 
29 


A  SELF-MADE  MERCHANT'S 

you'll  find  it  safe  to  go  short  a  little  on  the 
frills  of  education;  if  you  want  them  bad 
enough  you'll  find  a  way  to  pick  them  up 
later,  after  business  hours. 

The  main  thing  is  to  get  a  start  along 
right  lines,  and  that  is  what  I  sent  you  to 
college  for.  I  didn't  expect  you  to  carry 
off  all  the  education  in  sight — I  knew  you'd 
leave  a  little  for  the  next  fellow.  But  I 
wanted  you  to  form  good  mental  habits, 
just  as  I  want  you  to  have  clean,  straight 
physical  ones.  Because  I  was  run  through 
a  threshing  machine  when  I  was  a  boy,  and 
didn't  begin  to  get  the  straw  out  of  my  hair 
till  I  was  past  thirty,  I  haven't  any  sym- 
pathy with  a  lot  of  these  old  fellows  who  go 
around  bragging  of  their  ignorance  and 
saying  that  boys  don't  need  to  know  any- 
thing except  addition  and  the  "  best  policy  " 
brand  of  honesty. 

We  started  in  a  mighty  different  world, 
and  we  were  all  ignorant  together.  The 
Lord  let  us  in  on  the  ground  floor,  gave  us 

3° 


LETTERS  TO  HIS  SON 

corner  lots,  and  then  started  in  to  improve 
the  adjacent  property.  We  didn't  have  to 
know  fractions  to  figure  out  our  profits. 
Now  a  merchant  needs  astronomy  to  see 
them,  and  when  he  locates  them  they  are 
out  somewhere  near  the  fifth  decimal  place. 
There  are  sixteen  ounces  to  the  pound  still, 
but  two  of  them  are  wrapping  paper  in  a 
good  many  stores.  And  there're  just  as 
many  chances  for  a  fellow  as  ever,  but 
they're  a  little  gun  shy,  and  you  can't  catch 
them  by  any  such  coarse  method  as  putting 
salt  on  their  tails. 

Thirty  years  ago,  you  could  take  an  old 
muzzle-loader  and  knock  over  plenty  of 
ducks  in  the  city  limits,  and  Chicago  wasn't 
Cook  County  then,  either.  You  can  get 
them  still,  but  you've  got  to  go  to  Kanka- 
kee  and  take  a  hammerless  along.  And 
when  I  started  in  the  packing  business  it 
was  all  straight  sailing — no  frills — just 
turning  hogs  into  hog  meat — dry  salt  for  the 
niggers  down  South  and  sugar-cured  for 

31 


A  SELF-MADE  MERCHANTS 

the  white  folks  up  North.  Everything  else 
was  sausage,  or  thrown  away.  But  when 
we  get  through  with  a  hog  nowadays,  he's 
scattered  through  a  hundred  different  cans 
and  packages,  and  he's  all  accounted  for. 
What  we  used  to  throw  away  is  our  profit. 
It  takes  doctors,  lawyers,  engineers,  poets, 
and  I  don't  know  what,  to  run  the  busi- 
ness, and  I  reckon  that  improvements  which 
call  for  parsons  will  be  creeping  in  next. 
Naturally,  a  young  man  who  expects  to  hold 
his  own  when  he  is  thrown  in  with  a  lot 
of  men  like  these  must  be  as  clean  and 
sharp  as  a  hound's  tooth,  or  some  other 
fellow's  simply  going  to  eat  him  up. 

The  first  college  man  I  ever  hired  was  old 
John  Durham's  son,  Jim.  That  was  a  good 
many  years  ago  when  the  house  was  a  much 
smaller  affair.  Jim's  father  had  a  lot  of 
money  till  he  started  out  to  buck  the  uni- 
verse and  corner  wheat.  And  the  boy  took 
all  the  fancy  courses  and  trimmings  at  col- 
lege. The  old  man  was  mighty  proud  of 


LETTERS  TO  HIS  SON 

Jim.  Wanted  him  to  be  a  literary  fellow. 
But  old  Durham  found  out  what  every  one 
learns  who  gets  his  ambitions  mixed  up 
with  number  two  red — that  there's  a  heap 
of  it  lying  around  loose  in  the  country.  The 
bears  did  quick  work  and  kept  the  cash 
wheat  coming  in  so  lively  that  one  settling 
day  half  a  dozen  of  us  had  to  get  under 
the  market  to  keep  it  from  going  to  ever- 
lasting smash. 

That  day  made  young  Jim  a  candidate 
for  a  job.  It  didn't  take  him  long  to  de- 
cide that  the  Lord  would  attend  to  keep- 
ing up  the  visible  supply  of  poetry,  and  that 
he  had  better  turn  his  attention  to  the 
stocks  of  mess  pork.  Next  morning  he  was 
laying  for  me  with  a  letter  of  introduction 
when  I  got  to  the  office,  and  when  he  found 
that  I  wouldn't  have  a  private  secretary  at 
any  price,  he  applied  for  every  other  posi- 
tion on  the  premises  right  down  to  office 
boy.  I  told  him  I  was  sorry,  but  I  couldn't 
do  anything  for  him  then;  that  we  were 

33 


A  SELF-MADE  MERCHANT'S 

letting  men  go,  but  I'd  keep  him  in  mind, 
and  so  on.  The  fact  was  that  I  didn't  think 
a  fellow  with  Jim's  training  would  be  much 
good,  anyhow.  But  Jim  hung  on — said  he'd 
taken  a  fancy  to  the  house,  and  wanted  to 
work  for  it.  Used  to  call  by  about  twice 
a  week  to  find  out  if  anything  had  turned 
up. 

Finally,  after  about  a  month  of  this,  he 
wore  me  down  so  that  I  stopped  him  one 
day  as  he  was  passing  me  on  the  street.  I 
thought  I'd  find  out  if  he  really  was  so 
red-hot  to  work  as  he  pretended  to  be;  be- 
sides, I  felt  that  perhaps  I  hadn't  treated 
the  boy  just  right,  as  I  had  delivered  quite 
a  jag  of  that  wheat  to  his  father  myself. 

"Hello,  Jim,"  I  called;  "do  you  still 
want  that  job?" 

"  Yes,  sir,"  he  answered,  quick  as  light- 
ning. 

"  Well,  I  tell  you  how  it  is,  Jim,"  I  said, 
looking  up  at  him — he  was  one  of  those 
husky,  lazy-moving  six-footers — "  I  don't 

34 


LETTERS  TO  HIS  SON 

see  any  chance  in  the  office,  but  I  under- 
stand they  can  use  another  good,  strong 
man  in  one  of  the  loading  gangs. " 

I  thought  that  would  settle  Jim  and  let 
me  out,  for  it's  no  joke  lugging  beef,  or 
rolling  barrels  and  tierces  a  hundred  yards 
or  so  to  the  cars.  But  Jim  came  right  back 
at  me  with,  "  Done.  Who'll  I  report  to?  " 

That  sporty  way  of  answering,  as  if  he 
was  closing  a  bet,  made  me  surer  than  ever 
that  he  was  not  cut  out  for  a  butcher.  But 
I  told  him,  and  off  he  started  hot-foot  to 
find  the  foreman.  I  sent  word  by  another 
route  to  see  that  he  got  plenty  to  do. 

I  forgot  all  about  Jim  until  about  three 
months  later,  when  his  name  was  handed 
up  to  me  for  a  new  place  and  a  raise  in 
pay.  It  seemed  that  he  had  sort  of  abolished 
his  job.  After  he  had  been  rolling  barrels 
a  while,  and  the  sport  had  ground  down  one 
of  his  shoulders  a  couple  of  inches  lower 
than  the  other,  he  got  to  scheming  around 
for  a  way  to  make  the  work  easier,  and  he 

35 


A  SELF-MADE  MERCHANT'S 

hit  on  an  idea  for  a  sort  of  overhead  rail- 
road system,  by  which  the  barrels  could  be 
swung  out  of  the  storerooms  and  run  right 
along  into  the  cars,  and  two  or  three  men 
do  the  work  of  a  gang.  It  was  just  as  I 
thought.  Jim  was  lazy,  but  he  had  put  the 
house  in  the  way  of  saving  so  much  money 
that  I  couldn't  fire  him.  So  I  raised  his 
salary,  and  made  him  an  assistant  time- 
keeper and  checker.  Jim  kept  at  this  for 
three  or  four  months,  until  his  feet  began 
to  hurt  him,  I  guess,  and  then  he  was  out 
of  a  job  again.  It  seems  he  had  heard 
something  of  a  new  machine  for  registering 
the  men,  that  did  away  with  most  of  the 
timekeepers  except  the  fellows  who  watched 
the  machines,  and  he  kept  after  the  Superin- 
tendent until  he  got  him  to  put  them  in. 
Of  course  he  claimed  a  raise  again  for  ef- 
fecting such  a  saving,  and  we  just  had  to 
allow  it. 

I  was  beginning  to  take  an  interest  in 
Jim,  so  I  brought  him  up  into  the  office  and 

36 


LETTERS  TO  HIS  SON 

set  him  to  copying  circular  letters.  We 
used  to  send  out  a  raft  of  them  to  the  trade. 
That  was  just  before  the  general  adoption 
of  typewriters,  when  they  were  still  in  the 
experimental  stage.  But  Jim  hadn't  been 
in  the  office  plugging  away  at  the  letters 
for  a  month  before  he  had  the  writer's 
cramp,  and  began  nosing  around  again. 
The  first  thing  I  knew  he  was  sicking  the 
agents  for  the  new  typewriting  machine  on 
to  me,  and  he  kept  them  pounding  away 
until  they  had  made  me  give  them  a  trial. 
Then  it  was  all  up  with  Mister  Jim's  job 
again.  I  raised  his  salary  without  his  ask- 
ing for  it  this  time,  and  put  him  out  on  the 
road  to  introduce  a  new  product  that  we 
were  making — beef  extract. 

Jim  made  two  trips  without  selling 
enough  to  keep  them  working  overtime  at 
the  factory,  and  then  he  came  into  my 
office  with  a  long  story  about  how  we  were 
doing  it  all  wrong.  Said  we  ought  to  go 
for  the  consumer  by  advertising,  and  make 

37 


A  SELF-MADE  MERCHANT'S 

the  trade  come  to  us,  instead  of  chasing  it 
up. 

That  was  so  like  Jim  that  I  just  laughed 
at  first;  besides,  that  sort  of  advertising  was 
a  pretty  new  thing  then,  and  I  was  one  of 
the  old-timers  who  didn't  take  any  stock 
in  it.  But  Jim  just  kept  plugging  away  at 
me  between  trips,  until  finally  I  took  him 
off  the  road  and  told  him  to  go  ahead  and 
try  it  in  a  small  way. 

Jim  pretty  nearly  scared  me  to  death  that 
first  year.  At  last  he  had  got  into  some- 
thing that  he  took  an  interest  in — spending 
money — and  he  just  fairly  wallowed  in  it. 
Used  to  lay  awake  nights,  thinking  up  new 
ways  of  getting  rid  of  the  old  man's  profits. 
And  he  found  them.  Seemed  as  if  I  couldn't 
get  away  from  Graham's  Extract,  and 
whenever  I  saw  it  I  gagged,  for  I  knew  it 
was  costing  me  money  that  wasn't  coming 
back;  but  every  time  I  started  to  draw  in 
my  horns  Jim  talked  to  me,  and  showed  me 

38 


"  I  put  Jim  Durham  out  on  the 
road  to  introduce  a  new  product" 


LETTERS  TO  HIS  SON 

where  there  was  a  fortune  waiting  for  me 
just  around  the  corner. 

Graham's  Extract  started  out  by  being 
something  that  you  could  make  beef-tea 
out  of — that  was  all.  But  before  Jim  had 
been  fooling  with  it  a  month  he  had  got  his 
girl  to  think  up  a  hundred  different  ways 
in  which  it  could  be  used,  and  had  adver- 
tised them  all.  It  seemed  there  was  nothing 
you  could  cook  that  didn't  need  a  dash  of 
it.  He  kept  me  between  a  chill  and  a  sweat 
all  the  time.  Sometimes,  but  not  often,  I 
just  had  to  grin  at  his  foolishness.  I  re- 
member one  picture  he  got  out  showing  six- 
teen cows  standing  between  something  that 
looked  like  a  letter-press,  and  telling  how 
every  pound  or  so  of  Graham's  Extract 
contained  the  juice  squeezed  from  a  herd  of 
steers.  If  an  explorer  started  for  the  North 
Pole,  Jim  would  send  him  a  case  of  Extract, 
and  then  advertise  that  it  was  the  great  heat- 
maker  for  cold  climates;  and  if  some  other 

39 


A  SELF-MADE  MERCHANT'S 

fellow  started  across  Africa  he  sent  Mm  a 
case,  too,  and  advertised  what  a  bully  drink 
it  was  served  up  with  a  little  ice. 

He  broke  out  in  a  new  place  every  day, 
and  every  time  he  broke  out  it  cost  the 
house  money.  Finally,  I  made  up  my  mind 
to  swallow  the  loss,  and  Mister  Jim  was 
just  about  to  lose  his  job  sure  enough,  when 
the  orders  for  Extract  began  to  look  up,  and 
he  got  a  reprieve;  then  he  began  to  make 
expenses,  and  he  got  a  pardon;  and  finally 
a  rush  came  that  left  him  high  and  dry  in 
a  permanent  place.  Jim  was  all  right  in 
his  way,  but  it  was  a  new  way,  and  I  hadn't 
been  broad-gauged  enough  to  see  that  it  was 
a  better  way. 

That  was  where  I  caught  the  connection 
between  a  college  education  and  business. 
Fve  always  made  it  a  rule  to  buy  brains, 
and  I've  learned  now  that  the  better  trained 
they  are  the  faster  they  find  reasons  for 
getting  their  salaries  raised.  The  fellow 
who  hasn't  had  the  training  may  be  just  as 
40 


LETTERS  TO  HIS  SON 

smart,  but  he's  apt  to  paw  the  air  when 
he's  reaching  for  ideas. 

I  suppose  you're  asking  why,  if  I'm  so 
hot  for  education,  I'm  against  this  post- 
graduate course.  But  habits  of  thought 
ain't  the  only  thing  a  fellow  picks  up  at 
college. 

I  see  you've  been  elected  President  of 
your  class,  I'm  glad  the  boys  aren't  down 
on  you,  but  while  the  most  popular  man 
in  his  class  isn't  always  a  failure  in  busi- 
ness, being  as  popular  as  that  takes  up  a 
heap  of  time.  I  noticed,  too,  when  you  were 
home  Easter,  that  you  were  running  to 
sporty  clothes  and  cigarettes.  There's  noth- 
ing criminal  about  either,  but  I  don't 
hire  sporty  clerks  at  all,  and  the  only  part 
of  the  premises  on  which  cigarette  smoking 
is  allowed  is  the  fertilizer  factory. 

I  simply  mention  this  in  passing.  I  have 
every  confidence  in  your  ultimate  good 
sense,  and  I  guess  you'll  see  the  point  with- 
out my  elaborating  with  a  meat  ax  my 

41 


A  MERCHANTS  LETTERS 

reasons  for  thinking  that  you've  had  enough 
college  for  the  present. 

Your  affectionate  father, 

JOHN  GRAHAM. 


42 


FROM  John  Graham, 
head  of  the  house 
of  Graham  &  Co., 
at  the  Union  Stock  Yards 
in  Chicago,  to  his  son, 
Pierrepont  Graham,  at 
the  Waldorf-Astoria,  in 
New  York.  Mr.  Pierre- 
pont has  suggested  the 
grand  tour  as  a  proper 
finish  to  his  education. 


IV 

June  25,  189— 

Dear  Pierrepont:  Your  letter  of  the  sev- 
enth twists  around  the  point  a  good  deal 
like  a  setter  pup  chasing  his  tail.  But  I 
gather  from  it  that  you  want  to  spend  a 
couple  of  months  in  Europe  before  coming 
on  here  and  getting  your  nose  in  the  bull- 
ring. Of  course,  you  are  your  own  boss 
now  and  you  ought  to  be  able  to  judge 
better  than  any  one  else  how  much  time 
you  have  to  waste,  but  it  seems  to  me,  on 
general  principles,  that  a  young  man  of 
twenty-two,  who  is  physically  and  mentally 
sound,  and  who  hasn't  got  a  dollar  and  has 
never  earned  one,  can't  be  getting  on  some- 
body's pay-roll  too  quick.  And  in  this 
connection  it  is  only  fair  to  tell  you  that  I 
have  instructed  the  cashier  to  discontinue 
your  allowance  after  July  15.  That  gives 
you  two  weeks  for  a  vacation — enough  to 
make  a  sick  boy  well,  or  a  lazy  one  lazier. 

45 


A  SELF-MADE  MERCHANT'S 

I  hear  a  good  deal  about  men  who  won't 
take  vacations,  and  who  kill  themselves  by 
overwork,  but  it's  usually  worry  or  whiskey. 
It's  not  what  a  man  does  during  working- 
hours,  but  after  them,  that  breaks  down 
his  health.  A  fellow  and  his  business  should 
be  bosom  friends  in  the  office  and  sworn 
enemies  out  of  it.  A  clear  mind  is  one  that 
is  swept  clean  of  business  at  six  o'clock 
every  night  and  isn't  opened  up  for  it  again 
until  after  the  shutters  are  taken  down 
next  morning. 

Some  fellows  leave  the  office  at  night  and 
start  out  to  whoop  it  up  with  the  boys,  and 
some  go  home  to  sit  up  with  their  troubles 
— they're  both  in  bad  company.  They're  the 
men  who  are  always  needing  vacations,  and 
never  getting  any  good  out  of  them.  What 
every  man  does  need  once  a  year  is  a  change 
of  work — that  is,  if  he  has  been  curved  up 
over  a  desk  for  fifty  weeks  and  subsisting 
on  birds  and  burgundy,  he  ought  to  take 
to  fishing  for  a  living  and  try  bacon  and 

46 


LETTERS  TO  HIS  SON 

eggs,  with  a  little  spring  water,  for  dinner. 
But  coming  from  Harvard  to  the  packing- 
house will  give  you  change  enough  this  year 
to  keep  you  in  good  trim,  even  if  you  didn't 
have  a  fortnight's  leeway  to  run  loose. 

You  will  always  find  it  a  safe  rule  to  take 
a  thing  just  as  quick  as  it  is  offered — 
especially  a  job.  It  is  never  easy  to  get 
one  except  when  you  don't  want  it;  but 
when  you  have  to  get  work,  and  go  after 
it  with  a  gun,  you'll  find  it  as  shy  as  an  old 
crow  that  every  farmer  in  the  county  has 
had  a  shot  at. 

When  I  was  a  young  fellow  and  out  of 
a  place,  I  always  made  it  a  rule  to  take  the 
first  job  that  offered,  and  to  use  it  for  bait. 
You  can  catch  a  minnow  with  a  worm,  and 
a  bass  will  take  your  minnow.  A  good  fat 
bass  will  tempt  an  otter,  and  then  you've 
got  something  worth  skinning.  Of  course, 
there's  no  danger  of  your  not  being  able  to 
get  a  job  with  the  house — in  fact,  there  is 
no  real  way  in  which  you  can  escape  getting 

47 


A  SELF-MADE  MERCHANT'S 

one ;  but  I  don't  like  to  see  you  shy  off  every 
time  the  old  man  gets  close  to  you  with  the 
halter. 

I  want  you  to  learn  right  at  the  outset 
not  to  play  with  the  spoon  before  you  take 
the  medicine.  Putting  off  an  easy  thing 
makes  it  hard,  and  putting  off  a  hard  one 
makes  it  impossible.  Procrastination  is 
the  longest  word  in  the  language,  but  there's 
only  one  letter  between  its  ends  when  they 
occupy  their  proper  places  in  the  alphabet. 

Old  Dick  Stover,  for  whom  I  once  clerked 
in  Indiana,  was  the  worst  hand  at  pro- 
crastinating that  I  ever  saw.  Dick  was 
a  powerful  hearty  eater,  and  no  one  ever 
loved  meal-time  better,  but  he  used  to  keep 
turning  over  in  bed  mornings  for  just  an- 
other wink  and  staving  off  getting  up,  until 
finally  his  wife  combined  breakfast  and 
dinner  on  him,  and  he  only  got  two  meals  a 
day.  He  was  a  mighty  religious  man,  too, 
but  he  got  to  putting  off  saying  his  prayers 
until  after  he  was  in  bed,  and  then  he  would 

48 


LETTERS  TO  HIS  SON 

keep  passing  them  along  until  his  mind  was 
clear  of  worldly  things,  and  in  the  end  he 
would  drop  off  to  sleep  without  saying  them 
at  all.  What  between  missing  the  Sunday 
morning  service  and  never  being  seen  on 
his  knees,  the  first  thing  Dick  knew  he  was 
turned  out  of  the  church.  He  had  a  pretty 
good  business  when  I  first  went  with  him, 
but  he  would  keep  putting  off  firing  his 
bad  clerks  until  they  had  lit  out  with  the 
petty  cash;  and  he  would  keep  putting  off 
raising  the  salaries  of  his  good  ones  until 
his  competitor  had  hired  them  away.  Fin- 
ally, he  got  so  that  he  wouldn't  discount  his 
bills,  even  when  he  had  the  money;  and 
when  they  came  due  he  would  give  notes  so 
as  to  keep  from  paying  out  his  cash  a  little 
longer.  Eunning  a  business  on  those  lines 
is,  of  course,  equivalent  to  making  a  will 
in  favor  of  the  sheriff  and  committing  sui- 
cide so  that  he  can  inherit.  The  last  I 
heard  of  Dick  he  was  ninety-three  years  old 
and  just  about  to  die.  That  was  ten  years 

49 


A  SELF-MADE  MERCHANT'S 

ago,  and  I'll  bet  he's  living  yet.  I  simply 
mention  Dick  in  passing  as  an  instance  of 
how  habits  rule  a  man's  life. 

There  is  one  excuse  for  every  mistake  a 
man  can  make,  but  only  one.  When  a  fel- 
low makes  the  same  mistake  twice  he's  got 
to  throw  up  both  hands  and  own  up  to  care- 
lessness or  cussedness.  Of  course,  I  knew 
that  you  would  make  a  fool  of  yourself 
pretty  often  when  I  sent  you  to  college,  and 
I  haven't  been  disappointed.  But  I  ex- 
pected you  to  narrow  down  the  number  of 
combinations  possible  by  making  a  different 
sort  of  a  fool  of  yourself  every  time.  That 
is  the  important  thing,  unless  a  fellow  has 
too  lively  an  imagination,  or  has  none  at 
all.  You  are  bound  to  try  this  European 
foolishness  sooner  or  later,  but  if  you  will 
wait  a  few  years,  you  will  approach  it  in  an 
entirely  different  spirit — and  you  will  come 
back  with  a  good  deal  of  respect  for  the 
people  who  have  sense  enough  to  stay  at 
home. 

5° 


"  Old  Dick  Stover  was  the  worst  hand 
at  procrastinating  that  I  ever  saw." 


LETTERS  TO  HIS  SON 

I  piece  out  from  your  letter  that  you  ex- 
pect a  few  months  on  the  other  side  will 
sort  of  put  a  polish  on  you.  I  don't  want 
to  seem  pessimistic,  but  I  have  seen  hun- 
dreds of  boys  graduate  from  college  and 
go  over  with  the  same  idea,  and  they  didn't 
bring  back  a  great  deal  except  a  few  trunks 
of  badly  fitting  clothes.  Seeing  the  world 
is  like  charity — it  covers  a  multitude  of 
sins,  and,  like  charity,  it  ought  to  begin 
at  home. 

Culture  is  not  a  matter  of  a  change  of 
climate.  You'll  hear  more  about  Browning 
to  the  square  foot  in  the  Mississippi  Valley 
than  you  will  in  England.  And  there's  as 
much  Art  talk  on  the  Lake  front  as  in  the 
Latin  Quarter.  It  may  be  a  little  different, 
but  it's  there. 

I  went  to  Europe  once  myself.  I  was 
pretty  raw  when  I  left  Chicago,  and  I  was 
pretty  sore  when  I  got  back.  Coming  and 
going  I  was  simply  sick.  In  London,  for 
the  first  time  in  my  life,  I  was  taken  for  an 


A  SELF-MADE  MERCHANT'S 

easy  thing.  Every  time  I  went  into  a  store 
there  was  a  bull  movement.  The  clerks  all 
knocked  off  their  regular  work  and  started 
in  to  mark  up  prices. 

They  used  to  tell  me  that  they  didn't 
have  any  gold-brick  men  over  there.  So 
they  don't.  They  deal  in  pictures — old 
masters,  they  call  them.  I  bought  two — 
you  know  the  ones — those  hanging  in  the 
waiting-room  at  the  stock  yards;  and  when 
I  got  back  I  found  out  that  they  had  been 
painted  by  a  measly  little  fellow  who  went 
to  Paris  to  study  art,  after  Bill  Harris  had 
found  out  that  he  was  no  good  as  a  settling 
clerk.  I  keep  'em  to  remind  myself  that 
there's  no  fool  like  an  old  American  fool 
when  he  gets  this  picture  paresis. 

The  fellow  who  tried  to  fit  me  out  with 
a  coat-of-arms  didn't  find  me  so  easy.  I 
picked  mine  when  I  first  went  into  business 
for  myself — a  charging  steer — and  it's  reg- 
istered at  Washington.  It's  my  trade- 

52 


LETTERS  TO  HIS   SON 

mark,  of  course,  and  that's  the  only  coat-of- 
arms  an  American  merchant  has  any  busi- 
ness with.  It's  penetrated  to  every  quarter 
of  the  globe  in  the  last  twenty  years,  and 
every  soldier  in  the  world  has  carried  it — 
in  his  knapsack. 

I  take  just  as  much  pride  in  it  as  the  fel- 
low who  inherits  his  and  can't  find  any 
place  to  put  it,  except  on  his  carriage  door 
and  his  letter-head — and  it's  a  heap  more 
profitable.  It's  got  so  now  that  every  job- 
ber in  the  trade  knows  that  it  stands  for 
good  quality,  and  that's  all  any  English- 
man's coat-of-arms  can  stand  for.  Of 
course,  an  American's  can't  stand  for  any- 
thing much — generally  it's  the  burned-in-the 
skin  brand  of  a  snob. 

After  the  way  some  of  the  descendants  of 
the  old  New  York  Dutchmen  with  the  hoe 
and  the  English  general  storekeepers  have 
turned  out,  I  sometimes  feel  a  little  uneasy 
about  what  my  great-grandchildren  may 

53 


A  MERCHANT'S  LETTERS 

do,  but  we'll  just  stick  to  the  trade-mark 
and  try  to  live  up  to  it  while  the  old  man's 
in  the  saddle. 

I  simply  mention  these  things  in  a  general 
way.  I  have  no  fears  for  you  after  you've 
been  at  work  for  a  few  years,  and  have 
struck  an  average  between  the  packing- 
house and  Harvard;  then  if  you  want  to 
graze  over  a  wider  range  it  can't  hurt  you. 
But  for  the  present  you  will  find  yourself 
pretty  busy  trying  to  get  into  the  winning 
class. 

Your  affectionate  father, 

JOHN  GRAHAM. 


54 


No,  5 


FROM  John  Graham, 
head  of  the  house 
of  Graham  &  Co., 
at  the  Union  Stock  Yards 
in  Chicago,  to  his  son, 
Pierrepont  Graham,  at 
Lake  Moosgatchemawa- 
muc,  in  the  Maine  woods. 
Mr.  Pierrepont  has  writ- 
ten to  his  father  withdraw- 
ing his  suggestion. 


July  7,  189— 

Dear  Pierrepont:  Yours  of  the  fourth 
has  the  right  ring,  and  it  says  more  to  the 
number  of  words  used  than  any  letter  that 
I  have  ever  received  from  you.  I  remember 
reading  once  that  some  fellows  use  lan- 
guage to  conceal  thought;  but  it's  been  my 
experience  that  a  good  many  more  use  it 
instead  of  thought. 

A  business  man's  conversation  should  be 
regulated  by  fewer  and  simpler  rules  than 
any  other  function  of  the  human  animal. 
They  are: 

Have  something  to  say. 

Say  it. 

Stop  talking. 

Beginning  before  you  know  what  you 
want  to  say  and  keeping  on  after  you  have 
said  it  lands  a  merchant  in  a  lawsuit  or  the 
poorhouse,  and  the  first  is  a  short  cut  to  the 
second.  I  maintain  a  legal  department  here, 

57 


A  SELF-MADE  MERCHANT'S 

and  it  costs  a  lot  of  money,  but  it's  to  keep 
me  from  going  to  law. 

It's  all  right  when  you  are  calling  on  a 
girl  or  talking  with  friends  after  dinner 
to  run  a  conversation  like  a  Sunday-school 
excursion,  with  stops  to  pick  flowers;  but 
in  the  office  your  sentences  should  be  the 
shortest  distance  possible  between  periods. 
Cut  out  the  introduction  and  the  perora- 
tion, and  stop  before  you  get  to  secondly. 
You've  got  to  preach  short  sermons  to  catch 
sinners ;  and  deacons  won't  believe  they  need 
long  ones  themselves.  Give  fools  the  first 
and  women  the  last  word.  The  meat's 
always  in  the  middle  of  the  sandwich.  Of 
course,  a  little  butter  on  either  side  of  it 
doesn't  do  any  harm  if  it's  intended  for  a 
man  who  likes  butter. 

Remember,  too,  that  it's  easier  to  look 
wise  than  to  talk  wisdom.  Say  less  than 
the  other  fellow  and  listen  more  than  you 
talk;  for  when  a  man's  listening  he  isn't 
telling  on  himself  and  he's  flattering  the  f el- 

58 


LETTERS  TO  HIS  SON 

low  who  is.  Give  most  men  a  good  listener 
and  most  women  enough  note-paper  and 
they'll  tell  all  they  know.  Money  talks — but 
not  unless  its  owner  has  a  loose  tongue,  and 
then  its  remarks  are  always  offensive.  Pov- 
erty talks,  too,  but  nobody  wants  to  hear 
what  it  has  to  say. 

I  simply  mention  these  things  in  passing 
because  Fm  afraid  you're  apt  to  be  the 
fellow  who's  doing  the  talking;  just  as  I'm 
a  little  afraid  that  you're  sometimes  like 
the  hungry  drummer  at  the  dollar-a-day 
house — inclined  to  kill  your  appetite  by  eat- 
ing the  cake  in  the  centre  of  the  table  be- 
fore the  soup  comes  on. 

Of  course,  I'm  glad  to  see  you  swing  into 
line  and  show  the  proper  spirit  about  com- 
ing on  here  and  going  to  work;  but  you 
mustn't  get  yourself  all  "  het  up  "  before 
you  take  the  plunge,  because  you're  bound 
to  find  the  water  pretty  cold  at  first.  I've 
seen  a  good  many  young  fellows  pass 
through  and  out  of  this  office.  The  first 

59 


•  A  SELF-MADE  MERCHANT'S 

3» 

week  a  lot  of  them  go  to  work  they're  in  a 
sweat  for  fear  they'll  be  fired;  and  the  sec- 
ond week  for  fear  they  won't  be.  By  the 
third,  a  boy  that's  no  good  has  learned  just 
how  little  work  he  can  do  and  keep  his  job ; 
while  the  fellow  who's  got  the  right  stuff 
in  him  is  holding  down  his  own  place  with 
one  hand  and  beginning  to  reach  for  the 
job  just  ahead  of  him  with  the  other.  I 
don't  mean  tnat  he's  neglecting  his  work; 
but  he's  beginning  to  take  notice,  and  that's 
a  mighty  hopeful  sign  in  either  a  young 
clerk  or  a  young  widow. 

You've  got  to  handle  the  first  year  of 
your  business  life  about  the  way  you  would 
a  trotting  horse.  Warm  up  a  little  before 
going  to  the  post — not  enough  to  be  in  a 
sweat,  but  just  enough  to  be  limber  and 
eager.  Never  start  off  at  a  gait  that  you 
can't  improve  on,  but  move  along  strong 
and  well  in  hand  to  the  quarter.  Let  out  a 
notch  there,  but  take  it  calm  enough  up  to 
the  half  not  to  break,  and  hard  enough  not 
60 


LETTEPvS  TO  HIS  SON 

to  fall  back  into  the  ruck.  At  the  three- 
quarters  you  ought  to  be  going  fast  enough 
to  poke  your  nose  out  of  the  other  fellow's 
dust,  and  running  like  the  Limited  in  the 
stretch.  Keep  your  eyes  to  the  front  all  the 
time,  and  you  won't  be  so  apt  to  shy  at  the 
little  things  by  the  side  of  the  track.  Head 
up,  tail  over  the  dashboard — that's  the  way 
the  winners  look  in  the  old  pictures  of  Maud 
S.  and  Dexter  and  Jay-Eye-See.  And 
that's  the  way  I  want  to  see  you  swing  by 
the  old  man  at  the  end  of  the  year,  when  we 
hoist  the  numbers  of  the  fellows  who  are 
good  enough  to  promote  and  pick  out  the 
salaries  which  need  a  little  sweetening. 

I've  always  taken  a  good  deal  of  stock  in 
what  you  call  "Blood-will-tell"  if  you're 
a  Methodist,  or  "  Heredity  "  if  you're  a  Uni- 
tarian ;  and  I  don't  want  you  to  come  along 
at  this  late  day  and  disturb  my  religious 
beliefs.  A  man's  love  for  his  children  and 
his  pride  are  pretty  badly  snarled  up  in 
this  world,  and  he  can't  always  pick  them 
61 


A  SELF-MADE  MERCHANT'S 

apart.  I  think  a  heap  of  you  and  a  heap  of 
the  house,  and  I  want  to  see  you  get  along 
well  together.  To  do  that  you  must  start 
right.  It's  just  as  necessary  to  make  a 
good  first  impression  in  business  as  in 
courting.  You'll  read  a  good  deal  about 
"  love  at  first  sight "  in  novels,  and  there 
may  be  something  in  it  for  all  I  know;  but 
Fm  dead  certain  there's  no  such  thing  as 
love  at  first  sight  in  business.  A  man's  got 
to  keep  company  a  long  time,  and  come 
early  and  stay  late  and  sit  close,  before  he 
can  get  a  girl  or  a  job  worth  having.  There's 
nothing  comes  without  calling  in  this  world, 
and  after  you've  called  you've  generally  got 
to  go  and  fetch  it  yourself. 

Our  bright  young  men  have  discovered 
how  to  make  a  pretty  good  article  of  potted 
chicken,  and  they  don't  need  any  help  from 
hens,  either;  and  you  can  smell  the  clover 
in  our  butterine  if  you've  developed  the 
poetic  side  of  your  nose;  but  none  of  the 
boys  have  been  able  to  discover  anything 
62 


"  Charlie  Chase  told  me  he  was 
President  of  the  Klondike  Exploring, 
Gold  Prospecting  and  Immigration 
Company" 


LETTERS  TO  HIS  SON 

that  will  pass  as  a  substitute  for  work,  even 
in  a  boarding-house,  though  I'll  give  some  of 
them  credit  for  having  tried  pretty  hard. 

I  remember  when  I  was  selling  goods  for 
old  Josh  Jennings,  back  in  the  sixties,  and 
had  rounded  up  about  a  thousand  in  a  sav- 
ings-bank— a  mighty  hard  thousand,  that 
came  a  dollar  or  so  at  a  time,  and  every  dol- 
lar with  a  little  bright  mark  where  I  had  bit 
it — I  roomed  with  a  dry-goods  clerk  named 
Charlie  Chase.  Charlie  had  a  hankering  to 
be  a  rich  man ;  but  somehow  he  could  never 
see  any  connection  between  that  hankering 
and  his  counter,  except  that  he'd  hint  to  me 
sometimes  about  an  heiress  who  used  to 
squander  her  father's  money  shamefully  for 
the  sake  of  having  Charlie  wait  on  her.  But 
when  it  came  to  getting  rich  outside  the  dry- 
goods  business  and  getting  rich  in  a  hurry, 
Charlie  was  the  man. 

Along  about  Tuesday  night — he  was  paid 
on  Saturday — he'd  stay  at  home  and  begin 
to  scheme.  He'd  commence  at  eight  o'clock 

63 


A  SELF-MADE  MERCHANT'S 

and  start  a  magazine,  maybe,  and  before 
midnight  he'd  be  turning  away  subscribers 
because  his  preses  couldn't  print  a  big 
enough  edition.  Or  perhaps  he  wouldn't 
feel  literary  that  night,  and  so  he'd  invent  a 
system  for  speculating  in  wheat  and  go  on 
pyramiding  his  purchases  till  he'd  made  the 
best  that  Cheops  did  look  like  a  five-cent 
plate  of  ice  cream.  All  he  ever  needed  was 
a  few  hundred  for  a  starter,  and  to  get  that 
he'd  decide  to  let  me  in  on  the  ground  floor. 
I  want  to  say  right  here  that  whenever  any 
one  offers  to  let  you  in  on  the  ground  floor 
it's  a  pretty  safe  rule  to  take  the  elevator  to 
the  roof  garden.  I  never  exactly  refused  to 
lend  Charlie  the  capital  he  needed,  but  we 
generally  compromised  on  half  a  dollar  next 
morning,  when  he  was  in  a  hurry  to  make 
the  store  to  keep  from  getting  docked. 

He  dropped  by  the  office  last  week,  a  little 
bent  and  seedy,  but  all  in  a  glow  and  trem- 
bling with  excitement  in  the  old  way.  Told 
me  he  was  President  of  the  Klondike 

64 


LETTERS  TO  HIS  SON 

Exploring,  Gold  Prospecting  and  Immigra- 
tion Company,  with  a  capital  of  ten  millions. 
I  guessed  that  he  was  the  board  of  directors 
and  the  capital  stock  and  the  exploring  and 
the  prospecting  and  the  immigrating,  too — 
everything,  in  fact,  except  the  business  card 
he'd  sent  in ;  for  Charlie  always  had  a  gift 
for  nosing  out  printers  who'd  trust  him. 
Said  that  for  the  sake  of  old  times  he'd  let 
me  have  a  few  thousand  shares  at  fifty  cents, 
though  they  would  go  to  par  in  a  year.  In 
the  end  we  compromised  on  a  loan  of  ten 
dollars,  and  Charlie  went  away  happy. 

The  swamps  are  full  of  razor-backs  like 
Charlie,  fellows  who'd  rather  make  a  million 
a  night  in  their  heads  than  five  dollars  a 
day  in  cash.  I  have  always  found  it  cheaper 
to  lend  a  man  of  that  build  a  little  money 
than  to  hire  him.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  I 
have  never  known  a  fellow  who  was  smart 
enough  to  think  for  the  house  days  and  for 
himself  nights.  A  man  who  tries  that  is 
usually  a  pretty  poor  thinker,  and  he  isn't 

65 


A  MERCHANT'S  LETTERS 

much  good  to  either;  but  if  there's    any 
choice  the  house  gets  the  worst  of  it. 

I  simply  mention  these  little  things  in  a 
general  way.  If  you  can  take  my  word  for 
some  of  them  you  are  going  to  save  yourself 
a  whole  lot  of  trouble.  There  are  others 
which  I  don't  speak  of  because  life  is  too 
short  and  because  it  seems  to  afford  a  fellow 
a  heap  of  satisfaction  to  pull  the  trigger  for 
himself  to  see  if  it  is  loaded;  and  a  lesson 
learned  at  the  muzzle  has  the  virtue  of  never 
being  forgotten. 

You  report  to  Milligan  at  the  yards  at 
eight  sharp  on  the  fifteenth.  You'd  better 
figure  on  being  here  on  the  fourteenth,  be- 
cause Milligan's  a  pretty  touchy  Irishman, 
and  I  may  be  able  to  give  you  a  point  or  two 
that  will  help  you  to  keep  on  his  mellow 
side.  He's  apt  to  feel  a  little  sore  at  taking 
on  in  his  department  a  man  whom  he  hasn't 
passed  on. 

Your  affectionate  father, 

JOHN  GRAHAM. 
66 


No,  6 


FROM  John  Graham, 
en  route  to  Texas,  to 
Pierrepont  Graham, 
care  of  Graham  &  Co., 
Union  Stock  Yards,  Chi- 
cago. Mr.  Pierrepont  has, 
entirely  without  intention, 
caused  a  little  confusion  in 
the  mails,  and  it  has  come 
to  his  father's  notice  in 
the  course  of  business. 


VI 

PRIVATE  CAR  PARNASSUS,  Aug.  15,189 — 

Dear  Pierrepont:  Perhaps  it's  just  as 
well  that  I  had  to  hurry  last  night  to  make 
my  train,  and  so  had  no  time  to  tell  you  some 
things  that  are  laying  mighty  heavy  on  my 
mind  this  morning. 

Jim  Donnelly,  of  the  Donnelly  Provision 
Company,  came  into  the  office  in  the  after- 
noon, with  a  fool  grin  on  his  fat  face,  to  tell 
me  that  while  he  appreciated  a  note  which 
he  had  just  received  in  one  of  the  firm's 
envelopes,  beginning  "  Dearest,"  and  con- 
taining an  invitation  to  the  theatre  to-mor- 
row night,  it  didn't  seem  to  have  any  real 
bearing  on  his  claim  for  shortage  on  the 
last  carload  of  sweet  pickled  hams  he  had 
bought  from  us. 

Of  course,  I  sent  for  Milligan  and  went 
for  him  pretty  rough  for  having  a  mailing 
clerk  so  no-account  as  to  be  writing  personal 
letters  in  office  hours,  and  such  a  blunderer 


A  SELF-MADE  MERCHANT'S 

as  to  mix  them  up  with  the  firm's  corres- 
pondence. Milligan  just  stood  there  like  a 
dumb  Irishman  and  let  me  get  through 
and  go  back  and  cuss  him  out  all  over  again, 
with  some  trimmings  that  I  had  forgotten 
the  first  time,  before  he  told  me  that  you 
were  the  fellow  who  had  made  the  bull.  Nat- 
urally, I  felt  pretty  foolish,  and,  while  I 
tried  to  pass  it  off  with  something  about 
your  still  being  green  and  raw,  the  ice  was 
mighty  thin,  and  you  had  the  old  man  run- 
ning tiddledies. 

It  didn't  make  me  feel  any  sweeter  about 
the  matter  to  hear  that  when  Milligan  went 
for  you,  and  asked  what  you  supposed  Don- 
nelly would  think  of  that  sort  of  business, 
you  told  him  to  "  consider  the  feelings  of  the 
girl  who  got  our  brutal  refusal  to  allow  a 
claim  for  a  few  hundredweight  of  hams." 

I  haven't  any  special  objection  to  your 
writing  to  girls  and  telling  them  that  they 
are  the  real  sugar-cured  article,  for,  after 
70 


LETTERS  TO  HIS  SON 

all,  if  you  overdo  it,  it's  your  breach-of- 
promise  suit,  but  you  must  write  before 
eight  or  after  six.  I  have  bought  the  stretch 
between  those  hours.  Your  time  is  money — 
my  money — and  when  you  take  half  an  hour 
of  it  for  your  own  purposes,  that  is  just  a 
petty  form  of  petty  larceny. 

Milligan  tells  me  that  you  are  quick  to 
learn,  and  that  you  can  do  a  powerful  lot  of 
work  when  you've  a  mind  to;  but  he  adds 
that  it's  mighty  seldom  your  mind  takes  that 
particular  turn.  Your  attention  may  be  on 
the  letters  you  are  addressing,  or  you  may 
be  in  a  comatose  condition  mentally;  he 
never  quite  knows  until  the  returns  come 
from  the  dead-letter  office. 

A  man  can't  have  his  head  pumped  out 
like  a  vacuum  pan,  or  stuffed  full  of  odds 
and  ends  like  a  bologna  sausage,  and  do  his 
work  right.  It  doesn't  make  any  difference 
how  mean  and  trifling  the  thing  he's  doing 
may  seem,  that's  the  big  thing  and  the  only 

71 


A  SELF-MADE  MERCHANT'S 

thing  for  him  just  then.  Business  is  like 
oil — it  won't  mix  with  anything  but 
business. 

You  can  resolve  everything  in  the  world, 
even  a  great  fortune,  into  atoms.  And  the 
fundamental  principles  which  govern  the 
handling  of  postage  stamps  and  of  millions 
are  exactly  the  same.  They  are  the  common 
law  of  business,  and  the  whole  practice  of 
commerce  is  founded  on  them.  They  are  so 
simple  that  a  fool  can't  learn  them ;  so  hard 
that  a  lazy  man  won't. 

Boys  are  constantly  writing  me  for  advice 
about  how  to  succeed,  and  when  I  send  them 
my  receipt  they  say  that  I  am  dealing  out 
commonplace  generalities.  Of  course  I  am, 
but  that's  what  the  receipt  calls  for,  and  if  a 
boy  will  take  these  commonplace  general- 
ities and  knead  them  into  his  job,  the  mix- 
ture'll  be  cake. 

Once  a  fellow's  got  the  primary  business 
virtues  cemented  into  his  character,  he's 
safe  to  build  on.  But  when  a  clerk  crawls 
72 


"  Jim  Donnelly  of  the  Donnelly  Pro- 
vision Company  came  into  my  office  with 
a  fool  grin  on  his  fat  face" 


LETTERS  TO  HIS  SON 

into  the  office  in  the  morning  like  a  sick  set- 
ter pup,  and  leaps  from  his  stool  at  night 
with  the  spring  of  a  tiger,  I'm  a  little  afraid 
that  if  I  sent  him  off  to  take  charge  of  a 
branch  house  he  wouldn't  always  be  around 
when  customers  were.  He's  the  sort  of  a 
chap  who  would  hold  back  the  sun  an  hour 
every  morning  and  have  it  gain  two  every 
afternoon  if  the  Lord  would  give  him  the 
same  discretionary  powers  that  He  gave 
Joshua,  And  I  have  noticed  that  he's  the 
fellow  who  invariably  takes  a  timekeeper 
as  an  insult.  He's  pretty  numerous  in  busi- 
ness offices;  in  fact,  if  the  glance  of  the 
human  eye  could  affect  a  clockface  in  the 
same  way  that  a  man's  country  cousins  af- 
fect their  city  welcome,  I  should  have  to  buy 
a  new  timepiece  for  the  office  every  morning. 
I  remember  when  I  was  a  boy,  we  used  to 
have  a  pretty  lively  camp-meeting  every 
summer,  and  Elder  Hoover,  who  was  ac- 
counted a  powerful  exhorter  in  our  parts, 
would  wrastle  with  the  sinners  and  the 

73 


M!: 


A  SELF-MADE  MERCHANTS 

backsliders.  There  was  one  old  chap  in  the 
town — Bill  Budlong — who  took  a  heap  of 
pride  in  being  the  simon  pure  cuss.  Bill 
was  always  the  last  man  to  come  up  to  the 
mourners'  bench  at  the  camp-meeting  and 
the  first  one  to  backslide  when  it  was  over. 
Used  to  brag  around  about  what  a  hold 
Satan  had  on  him  and  how  his  sin  was  the 
original  brand,  direct  from  Adam,  put  up 
in  cans  to  keep,  and  the  can-opener  lost. 
Doc  Hoover  would  get  the  whole  town  safe 
in  the  fold  and  then  have  to  hold  extra  meet- 
ings for  a  couple  of  days  to  snake  in  that 
miserable  Bill;  but,  in  the  end,  he  always 
got  religion  and  got  it  hard.  For  a  month  or 
two  afterward,  he'd  make  the  chills  run 
down  the  backs  of  us  children  in  prayer- 
meeting,  telling  how  he  had  probably  been 
the  triflingest  and  orneriest  man  alive  before 
he  was  converted.  Then,  along  toward  hog- 
killing  time,  he'd  backslide,  and  go  around 
bragging  that  he  was  standing  so  close  to 

74 


* 

LETTERS  TO  HIS  SON 

the  mouth  of  the  pit  that  his  whiskers  smelt 
of  brimstone. 

He  kept  this  up  for  about  ten  years,  get- 
ting vainer  and  vainer  of  his  staying  qual- 
ities, until  one  summer,  when  the  Elder  had 
rounded  up  all  the  likeliest  sinners  in  the 
bunch,  he  announced  that  the  meetings  were 
over  for  that  year. 

You  never  saw  a  sicker-looking  man  than 
Bill  when  he  heard  that  there  wasn't  going 
to  be  any  extra  session  for  him.  He  got  up 
and  said  he  reckoned  another  meeting  would 
fetch  him ;  that  he  sort  of  felt  the  clutch  of 
old  Satan  loosening;  but  Doc  Hoover  was 
firm.  Then  Bill  begged  to  have  a  special 
deacon  told  off  to  wrastle  with  him,  but 
Doc  wouldn't  listen  to  that.  Said  he'd  been 
wasting  time  enough  on  him  for  ten  years 
to  save  a  county,  and  he  had  just  about 
made  up  his  mind  to  let  him  try  his  luck  by 
himself;  that  what  he  really  needed  more 
than  religion  was  common-sense  and  a  con- 

75 


A  SELF-MADE  MERCHANT'S 

viction  that  time  in  this  world  was  too  valu- 
able to  be  frittered  away.  If  he'd  get  that 
in  his  head  he  didn't  think  he'd  be  so  apt  to 
trifle  with  eternity;  and  if  he  didn't  get  it, 
religion  wouldn't  be  of  any  special  use  to 
him. 

A  big  merchant  finds  himself  in  Doc 
Hoover's  fix  pretty  often.  There  are  too 
many  likely  young  sinners  in  his  office  to 
make  it  worth  while  to  bother  long  with  the 
Bills.  Very  few  men  are  worth  wasting 
time  on  beyond  a  certain  point,  and  that 
point  is  soon  reached  with  a  fellow  who 
doesn't  show  any  signs  of  wanting  to  help. 
Naturally,  a  green  man  always  comes  to  a 
house  in  a  pretty  subordinate  position,  and 
it  isn't  possible  to  make  so  much  noise  with 
a  firecracker  as  with  a  cannon.  But  you 
can  tell  a  good  deal  by  what  there  is  left  of 
the  boy,  when  you  come  to  inventory  him  on 
the  fifth  of  July,  whether  he'll  be  safe  to 
trust  with  a  cannon  next  year. 

76 


LETTERS  TO  HIS  SON 

It  isn't  the  little  extra  money  that  you 
may  make  for  the  house  by  learning  the 
fundamental  business  virtues  which  counts 
so  much  as  it  is  the  effect  that  it  has  on  your 
character  and  that  of  those  about  you,  and 
especially  on  the  judgment  of  the  old  man 
when  he's  casting  around  for  the  fellow  to 
fill  the  vacancy  just  ahead  of  you.  He's 
pretty  apt  to  pick  some  one  who  keeps  sepa- 
rate ledger  accounts  for  work  and  for  fun, 
who  gives  the  house  sixteen  ounces  to  the 
pound,  and,  on  general  principles,  to  pass 
by  the  one  who  is  late  at  the  end  where  he 
ought  to  be  early,  and  early  at  the  end  where 
he  ought  to  be  late. 

I  simply  mention  these  things  in  passing, 
but,  frankly,  I  am  afraid  that  you  have  a 
streak  of  the  Bill  in  you ;  and  you  can't  be  a 
good  clerk,  let  alone  a  partner,  until  you  get 
it  out.  I  try  not  to  be  narrow  when  I'm 
weighing  up  a  young  fellow,  and  to  allow 
for  soakage  and  leakage,  and  then  to  throw 

77 


A  MERCHANT'S  LETTERS 

in  a  little  for  good  feeling ;  but  I  don't  trade 
with  a  man  whom  I  find  deliberately  mark- 
ing up  the  weights  on  me. 

This  is  a  fine  country  we're  running 
through,  but  it's  a  pity  that  it  doesn't  raise 
more  hogs.  It  seems  to  take  a  farmer  a 
long  time  to  learn  that  the  best  way  to  sell 
his  corn  is  on  the  hoof. 

Your  affectionate  father, 

JOHN  GRAHAM. 

P.  S.  I  just  had  to  allow  Donnelly  his 
claim  on  those  hams,  though  I  was  dead  sure 
our  weights  were  right,  and  it  cost  the  house 
sixty  dollars.  But  your  fool  letter  took  all 
the  snap  out  of  our  argument.  I  get  hot 
every  time  I  think  of  it. 


No,  7 


FROM  John  Graham, 
at  the  Omaha  Branch 
of  Graham  &  Co., 
to  Pierrepont  Graham,  at 
the  Union  Stock  Yards, 
Chicago.  Mr.  Pierrepont 
hasn't  found  the  methods 
of  the  worthy  Milligan  al- 
together to  his  liking,  and 
he  has  commented  rather 
freely  on  them. 


VII 

OMAHA,  September  1,  189 — 
Dear  Pierrepont:  Yours  of  the  30th 
ultimo  strikes  me  all  wrong.  I  don't  like  to 
hear  you  say  that  you  can't  work  under 
Milligan  or  any  other  man,  for  it  shows 
a  fundamental  weakness.  And  then,  too, 
the  house  isn't  interested  in  knowing  how 
you  like  your  boss,  but  in  how  he  likes  you. 
I  understand  all  about  Milligan.  He's  a 
cross,  cranky  old  Irishman  with  a  temper 
tied  up  in  bow-knots,  who  prods  his  men 
with  the  bull-stick  six  days  a  week  and 
schemes  to  get  them  salary  raises  on  the 
seventh,  when  he  ought  to  be  listening  to  the 
sermon;  who  puts  the  black-snake  on  a 
clerk's  hide  when  he  sends  a  letter  to  Osh- 
kosh  that  ought  to  go  to  Kalamazoo,  and 
begs  him  off  when  the  old  man  wants  to  have 
him  fired  for  it.  Altogether  he's  a  hard, 
crabbed,  generous,  soft-hearted,  loyal,  bully 
old  boy,  who's  been  with  the  house  since  we 
81 


A  SELF-MADE  MERCHANTS 

took  down  the  shutters  for  the  first  time, 
and  who's  going  to  stay  with  it  till  we  put 
them  up  for  the  last  time. 

But  all  that  apart,  you  want  to  get  it 
firmly  fixed  in  your  mind  that  you're  going 
to  have  a  Milligan  over  you  all  your  life, 
and  if  it  isn't  a  Milligan  it  will  be  a  Jones 
or  a  Smith,  and  the  chances  are  that  you'll 
find  them  both  harder  to  get  along  with  than 
this  old  fellow.  And  if  it  isn't  Milligan  or 
Jones  or  Smith,  and  you  ain't  a  butcher,  but 
a  parson  or  a  doctor,  or  even  the  Presi- 
dent of  the  United  States,  it'll  be  a  way- 
back  deacon,  or  the  undertaker,  or  the 
machine.  There  isn't  any  such  thing  as 
being  your  own  boss  in  this  world  unless 
you're  a  tramp,  and  then  there's  the  con- 
stable. 

Like  the  old  man  if  you  can,  but  give  him 
no  cause  to  dislike  you.  Keep  your  self-re- 
spect at  any  cost,  and  your  upper  lip  stiff 
at  the  same  figure.  Criticism  can  properly 
come  only  from  above,  and  whenever  you 
82 


LETTERS  TO  HIS  SON 

discover  that  your  boss  is  no  good  you  may 
rest  easy  that  the  man  who  pays  his  salary 
shares  your  secret.  Learn  to  give  back  a 
bit  from  the  base-burner,  to  let  the  village 
fathers  get  their  feet  on  the  fender  and  the 
sawdust  box  in  range,  and  you'll  find  them 
making  a  little  room  for  you  in  turn.  Old 
men  have  tender  feet,  and  apologies  are  poor 
salve  for  aching  corns.  Remember  that 
when  you're  in  the  right  you  can  afford  to 
keep  your  temper,  and  that  when  you're  in 
the  wrong  you  can't  afford  to  lose  it. 

When  you've  got  an  uncertain  cow  it's  all 
O.  K.  to  tie  a  figure  eight  in  her  tail,  if  you 
ain't  thirsty,  and  it's  excitement  you're 
after;  but  if  you  want  peace  and  her  nine 
quarts,  you  will  naturally  approach  her 
from  the  side,  and  say,  So-boss,  in  about 
the  same  tone  that  you  would  use  if  you 
were  asking  your  best  girl  to  let  you  hold 
her  hand. 

Of  course,  you  want  to  be  sure  of  your 
natural  history  facts  and  learn  to  distin- 

83 


A  SELF-MADE  MERCHANT'S 

guish  between  a  cow  that's  a  kicker,  but 
whose  intentions  are  good  if  she's  ap- 
proached with  proper  respect,  and  a  hooker, 
who  is  vicious  on  general  principles,  and 
any  way  you  come  at  her.  There's  never 
any  use  fooling  with  an  animal  of  that  sort, 
brute  or  human.  The  only  safe  place  is  the 
other  side  of  the  fence  or  the  top  of  the 
nearest  tree. 

When  I  was  clerking  in  Missouri,  a  fellow 
named  Jeff  Hankins  moved  down  from  Wis- 
consin and  bought  a  little  clearing  just  out- 
side the  town.  Jeff  was  a  good  talker,  but  a 
bad  listener,  and  so  we  learned  a  heap  about 
how  things  were  done  in  Wisconsin,  but  he 
didn't  pick  up  much  information  about  the 
habits  of  our  Missouri  fauna,  When  it  came 
to  cows,  he  had  had  a  liberal  education  and 
he  made  out  all  right,  but  by  and  by  it  got 
on  to  ploughing  time  and  Jeff  naturally 
bought  a  mule — a  little  moth-eaten  cuss, 
with  sad,  dreamy  eyes  and  droopy,  wiggly- 
woggly  ears  that  swung  in  a  circle  as  easy 


"  5/77  Budlong  was  always  the  last 
man  to  come  up  to  the  mourners'  bench" 


LETTERS  TO  HIS  SON 

as  if  they  ran  on  ball-bearings.  Her  owner 
didn't  give  her  a  very  good  character,  but 
Jeff  was  too  busy  telling  how  much  he  knew 
about  horses  to  pay  much  attention  to  what 
anybody  was  saying  about  mules.  So  finally 
the  seller  turned  her  loose  in  Jeff's  lot,  told 
him  he  wouldn't  have  any  trouble  catching 
her  if  he  approached  her  right,  and  hurried 
off  out  of  range. 

Next  morning  at  sunup  Jeff  picked  out  a 
bridle  and  started  off  whistling  Buffalo 
Gals — he  was  a  powerful  pretty  whistler 
and  could  do  the  Mocking  Bird  with  varia- 
tions— to  catch  the  mule  and  begin  his 
plowing.  The  animal  was  feeding  as  peace- 
ful as  a  water-color  picture,  and  she  didn't 
budge;  but  when  Jeff  began  to  get  nearer, 
her  ears  dropped  back  along  her  neck  as  if 
they  had  lead  in  them.  He  knew  that  symp- 
tom and  so  he  closed  up  kind  of  cautious, 
aiming  for  her  at  right  angles  and  gurgling, 
"  Muley,  muley,  here  muley;  that's  a  good 
muley,"  sort  of  soothing  and  caressing-like. 

85 


A  SELF-MADE  MERCHANT'S 

Still  she  didn't  stir  and  Jeff  got  right  up 
to  her  and  put  one  arm  over  her  back  and 
began  to  reach  forward  with  the  bridle, 
when  something  happened.  He  never  could 
explain  just  what  it  was,  but  we  judged 
from  the  marks  on  his  person  that  the  mule 
had  reached  forward  and  kicked  the  seat  of 
his  trousers  with  one  of  her  prehensile  hind 
feet;  and  had  reached  back  and  caught  him 
on  the  last  button  of  his  waistcoat  with  one 
of  her  limber  fore  feet;  and  had  twisted 
around  her  elastic  neck  and  bit  off  a  mouth- 
ful of  his  hair.  When  Jeff  regained  con- 
sciousness, he  reckoned  that  the  only  really 
safe  way  to  approach  a  mule  was  to  drop  on 
it  from  a  balloon. 

I  simply  mention  this  little  incident  as  an 
example  of  the  fact  that  there  are  certain 
animals  with  which  the  Lord  didn't  intend 
white  men  to  fool.  And  you  will  find  that, 
as  a  rule,  the  human  varieties  of  them  are 
not  the  fellows  who  go  for  you  rough-shod, 
like  Milligan,  when  you're  wrong.  It's  when 
86 


LETTERS  TO  HIS  SON 

you  come  across  one  of  those  gentlemen  who 
have  more  oil  in  their  composition  than  any 
two-legged  animal  has  a  right  to  have,  that 
you  should  be  on  the  lookout  for  concealed 
deadly  weapons. 

I  don't  mean  that  you  should  distrust  a 
man  who  is  affable  and  approachable,  but 
you  want  to  learn  to  distinguish  between 
him  and  one  who  is  too  affable  and  too  ap- 
proachable. The  adverb  makes  the  differ- 
ence between  a  good  and  a  bad  fellow.  The 
bunco  men  aren't  all  at  the  county  fair,  and 
they  don't  all  operate  with  the  little  shells 
and  the  elusive  pea.  When  a  packer  has 
learned  all  that  there  is  to  learn  about  quad- 
rupeds, he  knows  only  one-eighth  of  his 
business;  the  other  seven-eighths,  and  the 
important  seven-eighths,  has  to  do  with  the 
study  of  bipeds. 

I  dwell  on  this  because  I  am  a  little  dis- 
appointed that  you  should  have  made  such 
a  mistake  in  sizing  up  Milligan.  He  isn't 
the  brightest  man  in  the  office,  but  he  is 


A  SELF-MADE  MERCHANT'S 

loyal  to  me  and  to  the  house,  and  when  you 
have  been  in  business  as  long  as  I  have  you 
will  be  inclined  to  put  a  pretty  high  value 
on  loyalty.  It  is  the  one  commodity  that 
hasn't  any  market  value,  and  it's  the  one 
that  you  can't  pay  too  much  for.  You  can 
trust  any  number  of  men  with  your  money, 
but  mighty  few  with  your  reputation.  Half 
the  men  who  are  with  the  house  on  pay  day 
are  against  it  the  other  six. 

A  good  many  young  fellows  come  to  me 
looking  for  jobs,  and  start  in  by  telling  me 
what  a  mean  house  they  have  been  working 
for ;  what  a  cuss  to  get  along  with  the  senior 
partner  was;  and  how  little  show  a  bright, 
progressive  clerk  had  with  him.  I  never 
get  very  far  with  a  critter  of  that  class,  be- 
cause I  know  that  he  wouldn't  like  me  or 
the  house  if  he  came  to  work  for  us. 

I  don't  know  anything  that  a  young  busi- 
ness man  ought  to  keep  more  entirely  to 
himself  than  his  dislikes,  unless  it  is  his 
likes.  It's  generally  expensive  to  have  either, 


LETTERS  TO  HIS  SON 

but  it's  bankruptcy  to  tell  about  them.  It's 
all  right  to  say  nothing  about  the  dead  but 
good,  but  it's  better  to  apply  the  rule  to  the 
living,  and  especially  to  the  house  which  is 
paying  your  salary. 

Just  one  word  before  I  close,  as  old  Doc 
Hoover  used  to  say,  when  he  was  coming 
into  the  stretch,  but  still  a  good  ways  off 
from  the  benediction.  I  have  noticed  that 
you  are  inclined  to  be  a  little  chesty  and 
starchy  around  the  office.  Of  course,  it's 
good  business,  when  a  fellow  hasn't  much 
behind  his  forehead,  to  throw  out  his  chest 
and  attract  attention  to  his  shirt-front.  But 
as  you  begin  to  meet  the  men  who  have  done 
something  that  makes  them  worth  meeting 
you  will  find  that  there  are  no  "  keep  off  the 
grass  "  or  "  beware  of  the  dog  "  signs  around 
their  premises,  and  that  they  don't  motion 
to  the  orchestra  to  play  slow  music  while 
they  talk. 

Superiority  makes  every  man  feel  its 
equal.  It  is  courtesy  without  condescen- 


A  MERCHANTS  LETTERS 

sion;  affability  without  familiarity;  self- 
sufficiency  without  selfishness;  simplicity 
without  snide.  It  weighs  sixteen  ounces 
to  the  pound  without  the  package,  and  it 
doesn't  need  a  four-colored  label  to  make  it 
go. 

We  are  coming  home  from  here.  I  am  a 
little  disappointed  in  the  showing  that  this 
house  has  been  making.  Pound  for  pound 
it  is  not  getting  nearly  so  much  out  of  its 
hogs  as  we  are  in  Chicago.  I  don't  know 
just  where  the  leak  is,  but  if  they  don't  do 
better  next  month  I  am  coming  back  here 
with  a  shotgun,  and  there's  going  to  be  a 
pretty  heavy  mortality  among  our  head  men. 
Your  affectionate  father, 

JOHN  GRAHAM. 


90 


No,  8 


FROM  John  Graham, 
at  Hot  Springs,  Ar- 
kansas, to  his  son, 
Pierrepont,  at  the  Union 
Stock  Yards  in  Chicago. 
Mr.  Pierrepont  has  just 
been  promoted  from  the 
mailing  to  the  billing  desk 
and,  in  consequence,  his 
father  is  feeling  rather 
"mellow"  toward  him. 


VIII 

HOT  SPRINGS,  January  15,  189 — 
Dear  Pierrepont:  They've  run  me 
through  the  scalding  vats  here  till  they've 
pretty  nearly  taken  all  the  hair  off  my  hide, 
but  that  or  something  else  has  loosened  up 
my  joints  so  that  they  don't  squeak  any  more 
when  I  walk.  The  doctor  says  he'll  have 
my  rheumatism  cured  in  thirty  days,  so  I 
guess  you  can  expect  me  home  in  about  a 
fortnight.  For  he's  the  breed  of  doctor  that 
is  always  two  weeks  ahead  of  his  patients' 
condition  when  they're  poor,  and  two  weeks 
behind  it  when  they're  rich.  He  calls  him- 
self a  specialist,  which  means  that  it  costs 
me  ten  dollars  every  time  he  has  a  look  in 
at  my  tongue,  against  two  that  I  would  pay 
the  family  doctor  for  gratifying  his  curi- 
osity. But  I  guess  this  specialist  business 
is  about  the  only  outlet  for  marketing  the 
surplus  of  young  doctors. 

Reminds  me  of  the  time  when  we  were 

93 


A  SELF-MADE  MERCHANT'S 

piling  up  canned  corned  beef  in  stock  faster 
than  people  would  eat  it,  and  a  big  drought 
happened  along  in  Texas  and  began  driving 
the  canners  in  to  the  packing-house  quicker 
than  we  could  tuck  them  away  in  tin.  Jim 
Durham  tried  to  "  stimulate  the  consump- 
tion," as  he  put  it,  by  getting  out  a  nice  little 
booklet  called,  "  A  Hundred  Dainty  Dishes 
from  a  Can,"  and  telling  how  to  work  off 
corned  beef  on  the  family  in  various  dis- 
guises; but,  after  he  had  schemed  out  ten 
different  combinations,  the  other  ninety 
turned  out  to  be  corned-beef  hash.  So  that 
was  no  usa 

But  one  day  we  got  together  and  had  a 
nice,  fancy,  appetizing  label  printed,  and 
we  didn't  economize  on  the  gilt — a  picture 
of  a  steer  so  fat  that  he  looked  as  if  he'd 
break  his  legs  if  they  weren't  shored  up 
pretty  quick  with  props,  and  with  blue  rib- 
bons tied  to  his  horns.  We  labeled  it  "  Blue 
Ribbon  Beef — For  Fancy  Family  Trade," 
and  charged  an  extra  ten  cents  a  dozen  for 

94 


LETTERS  TO  HIS  SON 

the  cans  on  which  that  special  label  was 
pasted.  Of  course,  people  just  naturally 
wanted  it. 

There's  nothing  helps  convince  some  men 
that  a  thing  has  merit  like  a  little  gold  on 
the  label.  And  it's  pretty  safe  to  bet  that  if 
a  fellow  needs  a  six  or  seven-syllabled  word 
to  describe  his  profession,  he's  a  corn  doctor 
when  you  come  to  look  him  up  in  the  dic- 
tionary. And  then  you'll  generally  find  him 
in  the  back  part  of  the  book  where  they  tuck 
away  the  doubtful  words. 

But  that  isn't  what  I  started  out  to  say. 
I  want  to  tell  you  that  I  was  very,  very  glad 
to  learn  from  your  letter  that  you  had  been 
promoted  to  the  billing  desk.  I  have  felt 
all  along  that  when  you  got  a  little  of  the 
nonsense  tried  out  of  you  there  would  be  a 
residue  of  common-sense,  and  I  am  glad  to 
have  your  boss  back  up  my  judgment. 
There's  two  things  you  just  naturally  don't 
expect  from  human  nature — that  the 
widow's  tombstone  estimate  of  the  departed, 

95 


A  SELF-MADE  MERCHANT'S 

on  which  she  is  trying  to  convince  the  neigh- 
bors against  their  better  judgment  that  he 
went  to  Heaven,  and  the  father's  estimate 
of  the  son,  on  which  he  is  trying  to  pass  him 
along  into  a  good  salary,  will  be  conserva- 
tive. 

I  had  that  driven  into  my  mind  and 
spiked  down  when  I  hired  the  widow's  son  a 
few  years  ago.  His  name  was  Clarence — 
Clarence  St.  Clair  Hicks — and  his  father 
used  to  keep  books  for  me  when  he  wasn't 
picking  the  winners  at  Washington  Park  or 
figuring  out  the  batting  averages  of  the  Chi- 
cagos.  He  was  one  of  those  quick  men  who 
always  have  their  books  posted  up  half  an 
hour  before  closing  time  for  three  weeks  of 
the  month,  and  spend  the  evenings  of  the 
fourth  hunting  up  the  eight  cents  that  they 
are  out  on  the  trial  balance.  When  he  died 
his  wife  found  that  his  life  insurance  had 
lapsed  the  month  before,  and  so  she  brought 
Clarence  down  to  the  office  and  asked  me  to 
give  him  a  job. 


LETTERS  TO  HIS  SON 

Clarence  wasn't  exactly  a  pretty  boy;  in 
fact,  he  looked  to  me  like  another  of  his 
father's  bad  breaks;  but  his  mother  seemed 
to  think  a,  heap  of  him.  I  learned  that  he 
would  have  held  the  belt  in  his  Sunday- 
school  for  long-distance  verse-reciting  if  the 
mother  of  one  of  the  other  boys  hadn't  fixed 
the  superintendent,  and  that  it  had  taken  a 
general  conspiracy  of  the  teachers  in  his 
day-school  to  keep  him  from  walking  off 
with  the  good-conduct  medal. 

I  couldn't  just  reconcile  those  statements 
with  Clarence's  face,  but  I  accepted  him  at 
par  and  had  him  passed  along  to  the  head 
errand  boy.  His  mother  cried  a  little  when 
she  saw  him  marched  off,  and  asked  me  to 
see  that  he  was  treated  kindly  and  wasn't 
bullied  by  the  bigger  boys,  because  he  had 
been  "  raised  a  pet." 

A  number  of  unusual  things  happened  in 
the  offices  that  morning,  and  the  head  office 
boy  thought  Clarence  might  be  able  to  ex- 
plain some  of  them,  but  he  had  an  alibi 

97 


A  SELF-MADE  MERCHANT'S 

ready  every  time — even  when  a  bookkeeper 
found  the  vault  filled  with  cigarette  smoke 
and  Clarence  in  it  hunting  for  something  he 
couldn't  describe.  But  as  he  was  a  new  boy, 
no  one  was  disposed  to  bear  down  on  him 
very  hard,  so  his  cigarettes  were  taken 
away  from  him  and  he  was  sent  back  to  his 
bench  with  a  warning  that  he  had  used  up 
all  his  explanations. 

Along  toward  noon,  a  big  Boston  customer 
came  in  with  his  little  boy — a  nice,  plump, 
stall-fed  youngster,  with  black  velvet  pants 
and  hair  that  was  just  a  little  longer  than 
was  safe  in  the  stock -yards  district.  And 
while  we  were  talking  business,  the  kid  wan- 
dered off  to  the  coat-room,  where  the  errand 
boys  were  eating  lunch,  which  was  a  pretty 
desperate  place  for  a  boy  with  velvet  pants 
on  to  go. 

As  far  as  we  could  learn  from  Willie 
when  he  came  out  of  his  convulsions,  the 
boys  had  been  very  polite  to  him  and  had  in- 
sisted on  his  joining  in  a  new  game  which 


* '  Clarence  looked  to 
me  like  another  of  bis 
father's  bad  breaks" 


LETTERS  TO  HIS  SON 

Clarence  had  just  invented,  called  playing 
pig-sticker.  And,  because  he  was  company, 
Clarence  told  him  that  he  could  be_the  pig. 
Willie  didn't  know  just  what  being  the  pig 
meant,  but,  as  he  told  his  father,  it  didn't 
sound  very  nice  and  he  was  afraid  he 
wouldn't  like  it.  So  he  tried  to  pass  along 
the  honor  to  some  one  else,  but  Clarence 
insisted  that  it  was  "  hot  stuff  to  be  the  pig," 
and  before  Willie  could  rightly  judge  what 
was  happening  to  him,  one  end  of  a  rope  had 
been  tied  around  his  left  ankle  and  the 
other  end  had  been  passed  over  a  transom 
bar,  and  he  was  dangling  headforemost  in 
the  air,  while  Clarence  threatened  his  jugu- 
lar with  a  lath  sword.  That  was  when  he 
let  out  the  yell  which  brought  his  father  and 
me  on  the  jump  and  scattered  the  boys  all 
over  the  stock  yards. 

Willie's  father  canceled  his  bologna  con- 
tract and  marched  off  muttering  something 
about  "  degrading  surroundings  brutalizing 
the  young ; "  and  Clarence's  mother  wrote 

99 


A  SELF-MADE  MERCHANT'S 

me  that  I  was  a  bad  old  man  who  had  held 
her  husband  down  all  his  life  and  now 
wouldn't  give  her  son  a  show.  For,  nat- 
urally, after  that  little  incident,  I  had  told 
the  boy  who  had  been  raised  a  pet  that  he 
had  better  go  back  to  the  menagerie. 

I  simply  mention  Clarence  in  passing  as 
an  instance  of  why  I  am  a  little  slow  to  trust 
my  judgment  on  my  own.  I  have  always 
found  that,  whenever  I  thought  a  heap  of 
anything  I  owned,  there  was  nothing  like 
getting  the  other  fellow's  views  expressed 
in  figures;  and  the  other  fellow  is  usually  a 
pessimist  when  he's  buying.  The  lady  on 
the  dollar  is  the  only  woman  who  hasn't  any 
sentiment  in  her  make-up.  And  if  you  really 
want  a  look  at  the  solid  facts  of  a  thing  you 
must  strain  off  the  sentiment  first. 

I  put  you  under  Milligan  to  get  a  view  of 
you  through  his  eyes.  If  he  says  that  you 
are  good  enough  to  be  a  billing  clerk,  and  to 
draw  twelve  dollars  a  week,  I  guess  there's 
no  doubt  about  it.  For  he's  one  of  those 
100 


LETTERS  TO  HIS  SON 

men  that  never  show  any  real  enthusiasm 
except  when  they're  cussing. 

Naturally,  it's  a  great  satisfaction  to  see 
a  streak  or  two  of  business  ability  beginning 
to  show  under  the  knife,  because  when  it 
comes  closing  time  for  me  it  will  make  it  a 
heap  easier  to  know  that  some  one  who  bears 
the  name  will  take  down  the  shutters  in  the 
morning. 

Boys  are  a  good  deal  like  the  pups  that 
fellows  sell  on  street  corners — they  don't 
always  turn  out  as  represented.  You  buy 
a  likely  setter  pup  and  raise  a  spotted  coach 
dog  from  it,  and  the  promising  son  of  an 
honest  butcher  is  just  as  like  as  not  to  turn 
out  a  poet  or  a  professor.  I  want  to  say 
in  passing  that  I  have  no  real  prejudice 
against  poets,  but  I  believe  that,  if  you're 
going  to  be  a  Milton,  there's  nothing  like 
being  a  mute,  inglorious  one,  as  some  fellow 
who  was  a  little  sore  on  the  poetry  business 
once  put  it.  Of  course,  a  packer  wno  un- 
derstands something  about  the  versatility  of 

101 


A  SELF-MADE  MERCHANTS 

cottonseed  oil  need  never  turn  down  orders 
for  lard  because  the  run  of  hogs  is  light,  and 
a  father  who  understands  human  nature  can 
turn  out  an  imitation  parson  from  a  boy 
whom  the  Lord  intended  to  go  on  the  Board 
of  Trade.  But  on  general  principles  it's 
best  to  give  your  cottonseed  oil  a  Latin  name 
and  to  market  it  on  its  merits,  and  to  let 
your  boy  follow  his  bent,  even  if  it  leads  him 
into  the  wheat  pit.  If  a  fellow  has  got 
poetry  in  him  it's  bound  to  come  out  sooner 
or  later  in  the  papers  or  the  street  cars ;  and 
the  longer  you  keep  it  bottled  up  the  harder 
it  comes,  and  the  longer  it  takes  the  patient 
to  recover.  There's  no  easier  way  to  cure 
foolishness  than  to  give  a  man  leave  to  be 
foolish.  And  the  only  way  to  show  a  fel- 
low that  he's  chosen  the  wrong  business  is 
to  let  him  try  it.  If  it  really  is  the  wrong 
thing  you  won't  have  to  argue  with  him  to 
quit,  and  if  it  isn't  you  haven't  any  right  to. 
Speaking  of  bull-pups  that  turned  out  to 
be  terriers  naturally  calls  to  mind  the  case 
102 


LETTERS  TO  HIS  SON 

of  my  old  friend  Jeremiah  Simpkins'  son. 
There  isn't  a  solider  man  in  the  Boston 
leather  trade  than  Jeremiah,  nor  a  bigger 
scamp  that  the  law  can't  touch  than  his  son 
Ezra.  There  isn't  an  ounce  of  real  mean- 
ness in  Ezra's  whole  body,  but  he's  just 
naturally  and  unintentionally  a  maverick. 
When  he  came  out  of  college  his  father 
thought  that  a  few  years'  experience  in  the 
hide  department  of  Graham  &  Co.  would  be 
a  good  thing  for  him  before  he  tackled  the 
leather  business.  So  I  wrote  to  send  him  on 
and  I  would  give  him  a  job,  supposing,  of 
course,  that  I  was  getting  a  yearling  of  the 
steady,  old,  reliable  Simpkins  strain. 

I  was  a  little  uneasy  when  Ezra  reported, 
because  he  didn't  just  look  as  if  he  had  had 
a  call  to  leather.  He  was  a  tall,  spare  New 
Englander,  with  one  of  those  knobby  fore- 
heads which  has  been  pushed  out  by  the 
overcrowding  of  the  brain,  or  bulged  by  the 
thickening  of  the  skull,  according  as  you 
like  or  dislike  the  man.  His  manners  were 
103 


A  SELF-MADE  MERCHANT'S 

easy  or  familiar  by  the  same  standard.  He 
told  me  right  at  the  start  that,  while  he 
didn't  know  just  what  he  wanted  to  do,  he 
was  dead  sure  that  it  wasn't  the  leather 
business.  It  seemed  that  he  had  said  the 
same  thing  to  his  father  and  that  the  old 
man  had  answered,  "  Tut,  tut,"  and  told 
him  to  forget  it  and  to  learn  hides. 

Simpkins  learned  all  that  he  wanted  to 
know  about  the  packing  industry  in  thirty 
days,  and  I  learned  all  that  I  wanted  to 
know  about  Ezra  in  the  same  time.  Pork- 
packing  seemed  to  be  the  only  thing  that  he 
wasn't  interested  in.  I  got  his  resignation 
one  day  just  five  minutes  before  the  one 
which  I  was  having  written  out  for  him  was 
ready;  for  I  will  do  Simpkins  the  justice  to 
say  that  there  was  nothing  slow  about  him. 
He  and  his  father  split  up,  temporarily,  over 
it,  and,  of  course,  it  cost  me  the  old  man's 
trade  and  friendship.  I  want  to  say  right 
here  that  the  easiest  way  in  the  world  to 
make  enemies  is  to  hire  friends. 
104 


LETTERS  TO  HIS  SON 

I  lost  sight  of  Simpkins  for  a  while,  and 
then  he  turned  up  at  the  office  one  morning 
as  friendly  and  familiar  as  ever.  Said  he 
was  a  reporter  and  wanted  to  interview  me 
on  the  December  wheat  deal.  Of  course,  I 
wouldn't  talk  on  that,  but  I  gave  him  a  little 
fatherly  advice — told  him  he  would  sleep  in 
a  hall  bedroom  all  his  life  if  he  didn't  quit 
his  foolishness  and  go  back  to  his  father, 
though  I  didn't  really  believe  it.  He  thanked 
me  and  went  off  and  wrote  a  column  about 
what  I  might  have  said  about  December 
wheat,  and  somehow  gave  the  impression 
that  I  had  said  it. 

The  next  I  heard  of  Simpkins  he  was 
dead.  The  Associated  Press  dispatches  an- 
nounced it,  the  Cuban  Junta  confirmed  it, 
and  last  of  all,  a  long  dispatch  from  Simp- 
kins  himself  detailed  the  circumstances  lead- 
ing up  to  the  "  atrocity,"  as  the  headlines  in 
his  paper  called  it. 

I  got  a  long  wire  from  Ezra's  father  ask- 
ing me  to  see  the  managing  editor  and  get 
105 


A  SELF-MADE  MERCHANT'S 

at  the  facts  for  him.  It  seemed  that  the 
paper  had  thought  a  heap  of  Simpkins,  and 
that  he  had  been  sent  out  to  Cuba  as  a  cor- 
respondent, and  stationed  with  the  Insur- 
gent army.  Simpkins  in  Cuba  had  evidently 
lived  up  to  the  reputation  of  Simpkins  in 
Chicago.  When  there  was  any  news  he 
sent  it,  and  when  there  wasn't  he  just  made 
news  and  sent  that  along. 

The  first  word  of  his  death  had  come  in 
his  own  letter,  brought  across  on  a  filibuster- 
ing steamer  and  wired  on  from  Jacksonville. 
It  told,  with  close  attention  to  detail — 
something  he  had  learned  since  he  left  me 
— how  he  had  strayed  away  from  the  little 
band  of  insurgents  with  which  he  had  been 
out  scouting  and  had  blundered  into  the 
Spanish  lines.  He  had  been  promptly  made 
a  prisoner,  and,  despite  his  papers  proving 
his  American  citizenship,  and  the  nature  of 
his  job,  and  the  red  cross  on  his  sleeve,  he 
had  been  tried  by  drumhead  court  martial 
and  sentenced  to  be  shot  at  dawn.  All  this 
106 


LETTERS  TO  HIS  SON 

he  had  written  out,  and  then,  that  his  ac- 
count might  be  complete,  he  had  gone  on 
and  imagined  his  own  execution.  This  was 
written  in  a  sort  of  pigeon,  or  perhaps  you 
would  call  it  black  Spanish,  English,  and 
let  on  to  be  the  work  of  the  eyewitness  to 
whom  Simpkins  had  confided  his  letter.  He 
had  been  the  sentry  over  the  prisoner,  and 
for  a  small  bribe  in  hand  and  the  promise  of 
a  larger  one  from  the  paper,  he  had  turned 
his  back  on  Simpkins  while  he  wrote  out 
the  story,  and  afterward  had  deserted  and 
carried  it  to  the  Cuban  lines. 

The  account  ended :  "  Then,  as  the  order 
to  fire  was  given  by  the  lieutenant,  Senor 
Simpkins  raised  his  eyes  toward  Heaven  and 
cried :  '  I  protest  in  the  name  of  my  Amer- 
ican citizenship ! '  "  At  the  end  of  the  letter, 
and  not  intended  for  publication,  was 
scrawled :  "  This  is  a  bully  scoop  for  you, 
boys,  but  it's  pretty  tough  on  me.  Good-by. 
Simpkins." 

The  managing  editor  dashed  a  tear  from 

107 


A  SELF-MADE  MERCHANT'S 

his  eye  when  he  read  this  to  me,  and  gulped 
a  little  as  he  said :  "  I  can't  help  it;  he  was 

such  a  d d  thoughtful  boy.     Why,  he 

even  remembered  to  inclose  descriptions  for 
the  pictures ! " 

Simpkins'  last  story  covered  the  whole  of 
the  front  page  and  three  columns  of  the  sec- 
ond, and  it  just  naturally  sold  cords  of 
papers.  His  editor  demanded  that  the  State 
Department  take  it  up,  though  the  Span- 
iards denied  the  execution  or  any  previous 
knowledge  of  any  such  person  as  this  Sen  or 
Simpkins.  That  made  another  page  in  the 
paper,  of  course,  and  then  they  got  up  a 
memorial  service,  which  was  good  for  three 
columns.  One  of  those  fellows  that  you  can 
find  in  every  office,  who  goes  around  and 
makes  the  boys  give  up  their  lunch  money 
to  buy  flowers  for  the  deceased  aunt  of  the 
cellar  boss'  wife,  managed  to  collect  twenty 
dollars  among  our  clerks,  and  they  sent  a 
floral  notebook,  with  "  Gone  to  Press,"  done 
108 


LETTERS  TO  HIS  SON 

in  blue  immortelles  on  the  cover,  as  their 
"  tribute." 

I  put  on  a  plug  hat  and  attended  the 
service  out  of  respect  for  his  father.  But  I 
had  hardly  got  back  to  the  office  before  I 
received  a  wire  from  Jamaica,  reading: 
"  Cable  your  correspondent  here  let  me  have 
hundred.  Notify  father  all  hunk.  Keep  it 
dark  from  others.  Simpkins." 

I  kept  it  dark  and  Ezra  came  back  to  life 
by  easy  stages  and  in  such  a  way  as  not  to 
attract  any  special  attention  to  himself.  He 
managed  to  get  the  impression  around  that 
he'd  been  snatched  from  the  jaws  of  death 
by  a  rescue  party  at  the  last  moment.  The 
last  I  heard  of  him  he  was  in  New  York  and 
drawing  ten  thousand  a  year,  which  was 
more  than  he  could  have  worked  up  to  in 
the  leather  business  in  a  century. 

Fifty  or  a  hundred  years  ago,  when  there 
was  good  money  in  poetry,  a  man  with 
Simpkins'  imagination  would  naturally 
109 


A  MERCHANT'S  LETTERS 

have  been  a  bard,  as  I  believe  they  used  to 
call  the  top-notchers ;  and,  once  he  was 
turned  loose  to  root  for  himself,  he  instinc- 
tively smelled  out  the  business  where  he 
could  use  a  little  poetic  license  and  made  a 
hit  in  it. 

When  a  pup  has  been  born  to  point  par- 
tridges there's  no  use  trying  to  run  a  fox 
with  him.  I  was  a  little  uncertain  about 
you  at  first,  but  I  guess  the  Lord  intended 
you  to  hunt  with  the  pack.  Get  the  scent 
in  your  nostrils  and  keep  your  nose  to  the 
ground,  and  don't  worry  too  much  about 
the  end  of  the  chase.  The  fun  of  the  thing's 
in  the  run  and  not  in  the  finish. 

Your  affectionate  father, 

JOHN  GRAHAM. 


no 


No,  9 


FROM  John  Graham, 
at  Hot  Springs,  Ar- 
kansas, to  his  son, 
Pierrepont,  at  the  Union 
Stock  Yards  in  Chicago. 
Mr.  Pierrepont  has  been 
investing  more  heavily  in 
roses  than  his  father  thinks 
his  means  warrant,  and  he 
tries  to  turn  his  thoughts 
to  staple  groceries. 


IX 

HOT  SPRINGS,  January  30,  189 — 
Dear  Pierrepont:  I  knew  right  off  that  I 
had  made  a  mistake  when  I  opened  the  in- 
closed and  saw  that  it  was  a  bill  for  fifty- 
two  dollars,  "  for  roses  sent,  as  per  orders, 
to  Miss  Mabel  Dashkam."  I  don't  just  place 
Miss  Dashkam,  but  if  she's  the  daughter  of 
old  Job  Dashkam,  on  the  open  Board,  I 
should  say,  on  general  principles,  that  she 
was  a  fine  girl  to  let  some  other  fellow 
marry.  The  last  time  I  saw  her,  she  in- 
ventoried about  $10,000  as  she  stood — al- 
lowing that  her  diamonds  would  scratch 
glass — and  that's  more  capital  than  any 
woman  has  a  right  to  tie  up  on  her  back,  I 
don't  care  how  rich  her  father  is.  And 
Job's  fortune  is  one  of  that  brand  which 
foots  up  to  a  million  in  the  newspapers  and 
leaves  the  heirs  in  debt  to  the  lawyers  who 
settle  the  estate. 
Of  course  I've  never  had  any  real  experi- 


A  SELF-MADE  MERCHANT'S 

ence  in  this  sparking  business,  except  with 
your  Ma;  but  I've  watched  from  the  other 
side  of  the  fence  while  a  heap  of  fellows 
were  getting  it,  and  I  should  say  that  marry- 
ing a  woman  like  Mabel  Dashkam  would  be 
the  first  step  toward  becoming  a  grass  wid- 
ower. I'll  bet  if  you'll  tell  her  you're  mak- 
ing twelve  a  week  and  ain't  going  to  get  any 
more  till  you  earn  it,  you'll  find  that  you 
can't  push  within  a  mile  of  her  even  on  a 
Soo  ice-breaker.  She's  one  of  those  women 
with  a  heart  like  a  stock-ticker — it  doesn't 
beat  over  anything  except  money. 

Of  course  you're  in  no  position  yet  to 
think  of  being  engaged  even,  and  that's  why 
I'm  a  little  afraid  that  you  may  be  planning 
to  get  married.  But  a  twelve-dollar  clerk, 
who  owes  fifty-two  dollars  for  roses,  needs 
a  keeper  more  than  a  wife.  I  want  to  say 
right  here  that  there  always  comes  a  time 
to  the  fellow  who  blows  fifty-two  dollars  at 
a  lick  on  roses  when  he  thinks  how  many 
staple  groceries  he  could  have  bought  with 
114 


LETTERS  TO  HIS  SON 

the  money.  After  all,  there's  no  fool  like 
a  young  fool,  because  in  the  nature  of  things 
he's  got  a  long  time  to  live. 

I  suppose  I'm  fanning  the  air  when  I  ask 
you  to  be  guided  by  my  judgment  in  this 
matter,  because,  while  a  young  fellow  will 
consult  his  father  about  buying  a  horse,  he's 
cock-sure  of  himself  when  it  comes  to  pick- 
ing a  wife.  Marriages  may  be  made  in 
Heaven,  but  most  engagements  are  made  in 
the  back  parlor  with  the  gas  so  low  that  a 
fellow  doesn't  really  get  a  square  look  at 
what  he's  taking.  While  a  man  doesn't  see 
much  of  a  girl's  family  when  he's  courting, 
he's  apt  to  see  a  good  deal  of  it  when  he's 
housekeeping;  and  while  he  doesn't  marry 
his  wife's  father,  there's  nothing  in  the  mar- 
riage vow  to  prevent  the  old  man  from  bor- 
rowing money  of  him,  and  you  can  bet  if 
he's  old  Job  Dashkam  he'll  do  it.  A  man 
can't  pick  his  own  mother,  but  he  can  pick 
his  son's  mother,  and  when  he  chooses  a 
father-in-law  who  plays  the  bucket  shops, 

"5 


A  SELF-MADE  MERCHANT'S 

he  needn't  be  surprised  if  his  own  son  plays 
the  races. 

Never  marry  a  poor  girl  who's  been  raised 
like  a  rich  one.  She's  simply  traded  the 
virtues  of  the  poor  for  the  vices  of  the  rich 
without  going  long  on  their  good  points. 
To  marry  for  money  or  to  marry  without 
money  is  a  crime.  There's  no  real  objection 
to  marrying  a  woman  with  a  fortune,  but 
there  is  to  marrying  a  fortune  with  a 
woman.  Money  makes  the  mare  go,  and  it 
makes  her  cut  up,  too,  unless  she's  used  to  it 
and  you  drive  her  with  a  snaffle-bit. 

While  you  are  at  it,  there's  nothing  like 
picking  out  a  good-looking  wife,  because 
even  the  handsomest  woman  looks  homely 
sometimes,  and  so  you  get  a  little  variety; 
but  a  homely  one  can  only  look  worse  than 
usual.  Beauty  is  only  skin  deep,  but  that's 
deep  enough  to  satisfy  any  reasonable  man. 
(I  want  to  say  right  here  that  to  get  any 
sense  out  of  a  proverb  I  usually  find  that  I 
have  to  turn  it  wrong  side  out. )  Then,  too, 
116 


LETTERS  TO  HIS  SON 

if  a  fellow's  bound  to  marry  a  fool,  and  a 
lot  of  men  have  to  if  they're  going  to  hitch 
up  into  a  well-matched  team,  there's  nothing 
like  picking  a  good-looking  one. 

I  simply  mention  these  things  in  a  gen- 
eral way,  because  it  seems  to  me,  from  the 
gait  at  which  you're  starting  off,  that  you'll 
likely  find  yourself  roped  and  branded  any 
day,  without  quite  knowing  how  it  hap- 
pened, and  I  want  you  to  understand  that 
the  girl  who  marries  you  for  my  money  is 
getting  a  package  of  green  goods  in  more 
ways  than  one.  I  think,  though,  if  you 
really  understood  what  marrying  on  twelve 
a  week  meant,  you  would  have  bought  a  bed- 
room set  instead  of  roses  witli  that  fifty-two 
you  owe. 

Speaking  of  marrying  the  old  man's 
money  by  proxy  naturally  takes  me  back  to 
my  old  town  in  Missouri  and  the  case  of 
Chauncey  Witherspoon  Hoskins.  Chaun- 
cey's  father  was  the  whole  village,  barring 
the  railroad  station  and  the  saloon,  and,  of 
117 


A  SELF-MADE  MERCHANT'S 

course,  Chauncey  thought  that  he  was  some- 
thing of  a  pup  himself.  So  he  was,  but  not 
just  the  kind  that  Chauncey  thought  he  was. 
He  stood  about  five  foot  three  in  his  pumps, 
had  a  nice  pinky  complexion,  pretty  wavy 
hair,  and  a  curly  mustache.  All  he  needed 
was  a  blue  ribbon  around  his  neck  to  make 
you  call,  "  Here,  Fido,"  when  he  came  into 
the  room. 

Still  I  believe  he  must  have  been  pretty 
popular  with  the  ladies,  because  I  can't 
think  of  him  to  this  day  without  wanting 
to  punch  his  head.  At  the  church  sociables 
he  used  to  hop  around  among  them,  chipping 
and  chirping  like  a  dicky-bird  picking  up 
seed;  and  he  was  a  great  hand  to  play  the 
piano,  and  sing  saddish,  sweetish  songs  to 
them.  Always  said  the  smooth  thing  and 
said  it  easy.  Never  had  to  choke  and  swal- 
low to  fetch  it  up.  Never  stepped  through 
his  partner's  dress  when  he  began  to  dance, 
or  got  flustered  when  he  brought  her  refresh- 
ments and  poured  the  coffee  in  her  lap  to 
118 


LETTERS  TO  HIS  SON 

cool  instead  of  in  the  saucer.  We  boys  who 
couldn't  walk  across  the  floor  without  feel- 
ing that  our  pants  had  hiked  up  till  they 
showed  our  feet  to  the  knees,  and  that  we 
were  carrying  a  couple  of  canvased  hams 
where  our  hands  ought  to  be,  didn't  like 
him;  but  the  girls  did.  You  can  trust  a 
woman's  taste  on  everything  except  men; 
and  it's  mighty  lucky  that  she  slips  up  there 
or  we'd  pretty  nigh  all  be  bachelors.  I 
might  add  that  you  can't  trust  a  man's  taste 
on  women,  either,  and  that's  pretty  lucky, 
too,  because  there  are  a  good  many  old  maids 
in  the  world  as  it  is. 

One  time  or  another  Chauncey  lolled  in 
the  best  room  of  every  house  in  our  town, 
and  we  used  to  wonder  how  he  managed  to 
browse  up  and  down  the  streets  that  way 
without  getting  into  tlie  pound.  I  never 
found  out  till  after  I  married  your  Ma,  and 
she  told  me  Chauncey's  heart  secrets.  It 
really  wasn't  violating  any  confidence,  be- 
cause he'd  told  them  to  every  girl  in  town. 
119 


A  SELF-MADE  MERCHANT'S 

Seems  he  used  to  get  terribly  sad  as  soon 
as  he  was  left  alone  with  a  girl  and  began 
to  hint  about  a  tragedy  in  his  past — some- 
thing that  had  blighted  his  whole  life  and 
left  him  without  the  power  to  love  again — 
and  lots  more  slop  from  the  same  pail. 

Of  course,  every  girl  in  that  town  had 
known  Chauncey  since  he  wore  short  pants, 
and  ought  to  have  known  that  the  nearest  to 
a  tragedy  he  had  ever  been  was  when  he  sat 
in  the  top  gallery  of  a  Chicago  theatre  and 
saw  a  lot  of  barnstormers  play  Othello.  But 
some  people,  and  especially  very  young  peo- 
ple, don't  think  anything's  worth  believing 
unless  it's  hard  to  believe. 

Chauncey  worked  along  these  lines  until 
he  was  twenty-four,  and  then  he  made  a  mis- 
take. Most  of  the  girls  that  he  had  grown 
up  with  had  married  off,  and  while  he  was 
waiting  for  a  new  lot  to  come  along,  he 
began  to  shine  up  to  the  widow  Sharpless, 
a  powerful,  well-preserved  woman  of  forty 
or  thereabouts,  who  had  been  born  with  her 

120 


LETTERS  TO  HIS  SON 

eye-teeth  cut.  He  found  her  uncommon 
sympathetic.  And  when  Chauncey  finally 
came  out  of  his  trance  he  was  the  stepfather 
of  the  widow's  four  children. 

She  was  very  kind  to  Chauncey,  and 
treated  him  like  one  of  her  own  sons;  but 
she  was  very,  very  firm.  There  was  no  gal- 
livanting off  alone,  and  when  they  went  out 
in  double  harness  strangers  used  to  annoy 
him  considerable  by  patting  him  on  the 
head  and  saying  to  his  wife :  "  What  a 
bright-looking  chap  your  son  is,  Mrs.  Hos- 
kins!" 

She  was  almost  seventy  when  Chauncey 
buried  her  a  while  back,  and  they  say  that 
he  began  to  take  notice  again  on  the  way 
home  from  the  funeral.  Anyway,  he 
crowded  his  mourning  into  sixty  days — and 
I  reckon  there  was  plenty  of  room  in  them 
to  hold  all  his  grief  without  stretching — 
and  his  courting  into  another  sixty.  And 
four  months  after  date  he  presented  his 
matrimonial  papers  for  acceptance.  Said 

121 


A  SELF-MADE  MERCHANTS 

he  was  tired  of  this  mother-and-son  foolish- 
ness, and  wasn't  going  to  leave  any  room  for 
doubt  this  time.  Didn't  propose  to  have 
people  sizing  his  wife  up  for  one  of  his  an- 
cestors any  more.  So  he  married  Lulu 
Littlebrown,  who  was  just  turned  eighteen. 
Chauncey  was  over  fifty  then,  and  wizened 
up  like  a  late  pippin  that  has  been  out  over- 
night in  an  early  frost. 

He  took  Lu  to  Chicago  for  the  honey- 
moon, and  Mose  Greenebaum,  who  happened 
to  be  going  up  to  town  for  his  fall  goods,  got 
into  the  parlor  car  with  them.  By  and  by 
the  porter  came  around  and  stopped  beside 
Chauncey. 

"  Wouldn't  your  daughter  like  a  pillow 
under  her  head?  "  says  he. 

Chauncey  just  groaned.  Then — "Git; 
you  Senegambian  son  of  darkness ! "  And 
the  porter  just  naturally  got. 

Mose  had  been  taking  it  all  in,  and  now 
he  went  back  to  the  smoking-room  and 
passed  the  word  along  to  the  drummers 

122 


LETTERS  TO  HIS  SON 

there.  Every  little  while  one  of  them  would 
lounge  up  the  aisle  to  Chauncey  and  ask  if 
he  couldn't  lend  his  daughter  a  magazine, 
or  give  her  an  orange,  or  bring  her  a  drink 
And  the  language  that  he  gave  back  in  re- 
turn for  these  courtesies  wasn't  at  all  fitting 
in  a  bridegroom.  Then  Mose  had  another 
happy  thought,  and  dropped  off  at  a  -way 
station  and  wired  the  clerk  at  the  Palmer 
House. 

When  they  got  to  the  hotel  the  clerk  was 
on  the  lookout  for  them,  and  Chauncey 
hadn't  more  than  signed  his  name  before  he 
reached  out  over  his  diamond  and  said: 
"  Ah,  Mr.  Hoskins ;  would  you  like  to  have 
your  daughter  near  you?  " 

I  simply  mention  Chauncey  in  passing 
as  an  example  of  the  foolishness  of  thinking 
you  can  take  any  chances  with  a  woman 
who  has  really  decided  that  she  wants  to 
marry,  or  that  you  can  average  up  matri- 
monial mistakes.  And  I  want  you  to  re- 
member that  marrying  the  wrong  girl  is 


A  MERCHANT'S  LETTERS 

the  one  mistake  that  you're  got  to  live  wit 
all  your  life.    I  think,  though,  that  if  TO 
tell  Mabel  what  your  assets  are,  she'll  de- 
cide she  won't  be  your  particular  mistake. 
Your  affectionate  father, 

JOHN  GRAHAM. 


124 


No,  10 


FROM  John  Graham, 
at  the  Union  Stock 
Yards  in  Chicago, 
to  his  son,  Pierrepont,  at 
the  Commercial  House, 
Jeffersonville,  Indiana. 
Mr.  Pierrepont  has  been 
promoted  to  the  position 
of  traveling  salesman  for 
the  house,  and  has  started 
out  on  the  road. 


CHICAGO,  March  1,  189 — 
Dear  Pierrepont:  When  I  saw  you  start 
off  yesterday  I  was  just  a  little  uneasy; 
for  you  looked  so  blamed  important  and 
chesty  that  I  am  inclined  to  think  you  will 
tell  the  first  customer  who  says  he  doesn't 
like  our  sausage  that  he  knows  what  he  can 
do  about  it.  Repartee  makes  reading  lively, 
but  business  dull.  And  what  the  house 
needs  is  more  orders. 

Sausage  is  the  one  subject  of  all  others 
that  a  fellow  in  the  packing  business  ought 
to  treat  solemnly.  Half  the  people  in  the 
world  take  a  joke  seriously  from  the  start, 
and  the  other  half  if  you  repeat  it  often 
enough.  Only  last  week  the  head  of  our 
sausage  department  started  to  put  out  a 
tin-tag  brand  of  frankfurts,  but  I  made  him 
take  it  off  the  market  quicker  than  light- 
ning, because  I  knew  that  the  first  fool  who 
saw  the  tin-tag  would  ask  if  that  was  the 

127 


A  SELF-MADE  MERCHANT'S 

license.  And,  though  people  would  grin  a 
little  at  first,  they'd  begin  to  look  serious 
after  a  while;  and  whenever  the  butcher 
tried  to  sell  them  our  brand  they'd  imagine 
they  heard  the  bark,  and  ask  for  "  that  real 
country  sausage  "  at  twice  as  much  a  pound. 

He  laughs  best  who  doesn't  laugh  at  all 
when  he's  dealing  with  the  public.  It  has 
been  my  experience  that,  even  when  a  man 
has  a  sense  of  humor,  it  only  really  carries 
him  to  the  point  where  he  will  join  in  a 
laugh  at  the  expense  of  the  other  fellow. 
There's  nothing  in  the  world  sicker-looking 
than  the  grin  of  the  man  who's  trying  to 
join  in  heartily  when  the  laugh's  on  him, 
and  to  pretend  that  he  likes  it. 

Speaking  of  sausage  with  a  registered 
pedigree  calls  to  mind  a  little  experience 
that  I  had  last  year.  A  fellow  came  into 
the  office  here  with  a  shriveled-up  toy 
spaniel,  one  of  those  curly,  hairy  little  fel- 
lows that  a  woman  will  kiss,  and  then 
grumble  because  a  fellow's  mustache  tickles. 
128 


"  Tou  looked  so  blamed  important  and 
chesty  when  you  started  off. ' ' 


LETTERS  TO  HIS  SON 

Said  he  wanted  to  sell  him.  I  wasn't  really 
disposed  to  add  a  dog  to  my  troubles,  but  on 
general  principles  I  asked  him  what  he 
wanted  for  the  little  cuss. 

The  fellow  hawed  and  choked  and  wiped 
away  a  tear.  Finally,  he  fetched  out  that 
he  loved  the  dog  like  a  son,  and  that  it  broke 
his  heart  to  think  of  parting  with  him ;  that 
he  wouldn't  dare  look  Dandy  in  the  face 
after  he  had  named  the  price  he  was  asking 
for  him,  and  that  it  was  the  record-breaking, 
marked-down  sacrifice  sale  of  the  year  on 
dogs;  that  it  wasn't  really  money  he  was 
after,  but  a  good  home  for  the  little  chap. 
Said  that  I  had  a  rather  pleasant  face  and 
he  knew  that  he  could  trust  me  to  treat 
Dandy  kindly;  so — as  a  gift — he  would  let 
me  have  him  for  five  hundred. 

"  Cents  ?"  says  I. 

"  Dollars,"  says  he,  without  blinking. 

"  It  ought  to  be  a  mastiff  at  that  price," 
says  I. 

"  If  you  thought  more  of  quality,"  says 
129 


A  SELF-MADE  MERCHANT'S 

he,  in  a  tone  of  sort  of  dignified  reproof, 
"  and  less  of  quantity,  your  brand  would 
enjoy  a  better  reputation." 

I  was  pretty  hot,  I  can  tell  you,  but  I 
had  laid  myself  open,  so  I  just  said :  "  The 
sausage  business  is  too  poor  to  warrant  our 
paying  any  such  price  for  light-weights. 
Bring  around  a  bigger  dog  and  then  we'll 
talk ; "  but  the  fellow  only  shook  his  head 
sadly,  whistled  to  Dandy,  and  walked  off. 

I  simply  mention  this  l'ttle  incident  as 
an  example  of  the  fact  that  when  a  man 
cracks  a  joke  in  the  Middle  Ages  he's  apt  to 
affect  the  sausage  market  in  the  Nineteenth 
Century,  and  to  lay  open  an  honest  butcher 
to  the  jeers  of  every  dog-stealer  in  the  street. 
There's  such  a  thing  as  carrying  a  joke  too 
far,  and  the  fellow  who  keeps  on  pretending 
to  believe  that  he's  paying  for  pork  and 
getting  dog  is  pretty  apt  to  get  dog  in  the 
end. 

But  all  that  aside,  I  want  you  to  get  it 
firmly  fixed  in  your  mind  right  at  the  start 
130 


LETTERS  TO  HIS  SON 

that  this  trip  is  only  an  experiment,  and 
that  I  am  not  at  all  sure  you  were  cut  out 
by  the  Lord  to  be  a  drummer.  But  you  can 
figure  on  one  thing — that  you  will  never 
become  the  pride  of  the  pond  by  starting  out 
to  cut  figure  eights  before  you  are  firm  on 
your  skates. 

A  real  salesman  is  one-part  talk  and  nine- 
parts  judgment;  and  he  uses  the  nine-parts 
of  judgment  to  tell  when  to  use  the  one-part 
of  talk.  Goods  ain't  sold  under  Marquess 
of  Queensberry  rules  any  more,  and  you'll 
find  that  knowing  how  many  rounds  the  Old 
'Un  can  last  against  the  Boiler-Maker  won't 
really  help  you  to  load  up  the  junior  partner 
with  our  Corn-fed  brand  hams. 

A  good  many  salesmen  have  an  idea  that 
buyers  are  only  interested  in  baseball,  and 
funny  stories,  and  Tom  Lipton,  and  that 
business  is  a  side  line  with  them;  but  as  a 
matter  of  fact  mighty  few  men  work  up  to 
the  position  of  buyer  through  giving  up  their 
office  hours  to  listening  to  anecdotes.  I 


A  SELF-MADE  MERCHANTS 

never  saw  one  that  liked  a  drummer's  jokes 
more  than  an  eighth  of  a  cent  a  pound  on 
a  tierce  of  lard.  What  the  house  really 
sends  you  out  for  is  orders. 

Of  course,  yon  want  to  be  nice  and  mel- 
low with  the  trade,  but  always  remember 
that  mellowness  carried  too  far  becomes 
rottenness.  You  can  buy  some  fellows  with 
a  cheap  cigar  and  some  with  a  cheap  com- 
pliment, and  there's  no  objection  to  giving 
a  man  what  he  likes,  though  I  never  knew 
smoking  to  do  anything  good  except  a  ham, 
or  flattery  to  help  any  one  except  jto  make  a 
fool  of  himself. 

Real  buyers  ain't  interested  in  much  be- 
sides your  goods  and  your  prices.  Never 
run  down  your  competitor's  brand  to  them, 
and  never  let  them  run  down  yours.  Don't 
get  on  your  knees  for  business,  but  don't 
hold  your  nose  so  high  in  the  air  that  an 
order  can  travel  under  it  without  your  see- 
ing it.  You'll  meet  a  good  many  people  on 
132 


LETTERS  TO  HIS  SON 

the  road  that  you  won't  like,  but  the  house 
needs  their  business. 

Some  fellows  will  tell  you  that  we  play 
the  hose  on  our  dry  salt  meat  before  we  ship 
it,  and  that  it  shrinks  in  transit  like  a  Bax- 
ter Street  Jew's  all-wool  suits  in  a  rain- 
storm ;  that  they  wonder  how  we  manage  to 
pack  solid  gristle  in  two-pound  cans  with- 
out leaving  a  little  meat  hanging  to  it ;  and 
that  the  last  car  of  lard  was  so  strong 
that  it  came  back  of  its  own  accord  from 
every  retailer  they  shipped  it  to.  The  first 
fellow  will  be  lying,  and  the  second  will  be 
exaggerating,  and  the  third  may  be  telling 
the  truth.  With  him  you  must  settle  on  the 
spot;  but  always  remember  that  a  man 
who's  making  a  claim  never  underestimates 
his  case,  and  that  you  can  generally  compro- 
mise for  something  less  than  the  first  figure. 
With  the  second  you  must  sympathize,  and 
say  that  the  matter  will  be  reported  to  head- 
quarters and  the  boss  of  the  canning-room 


A  SELF-MADE  MERCHANTS 

culled  up  on  the  carpet  and  made  to  promise 
that  it  will  never  happen  again.  With  the 
tirst  you  needn't  bin  her.  There's  no  use 
feeding  expensive  ••  hen-food "  to  an  old 
Pominick  that  sucks  eggs.  The  chances  are 
that  the  car  weighed  out  more  than  it  was 
billed,  and  that  the  fellow  played  the  hose 
on  it  himself  and  added  a  thousand  pounds 
of  cheap  salt  before  he  jobbed  it  out  to  his 
trade. 

Where  you're  going  to  slip  up  at  first  is 
in  knowing  which  is  which,  but  if  you  don't 
learn  pretty  quick  you'll  not  travel  very  far 
for  the  house.  For  yonr  own  satisfaction  I 
will  say  right  here  that  you  may  know  you 
are  in  a  fair  way  of  becoming  a  good  drum- 
mer by  thrve  things : 

First — When  you  send  us  Orders, 

Second — More  Orders, 

Third— Big  Orders. 

If  you  do  this  you  won't  have  a  great  deal 
of  time  to  write  long  letters,  and  we  won't 
have  a  great  deal  of  time  to  read  them,  for 


LETTERS  TO  HIS  SON 

we  will  be  very,  very  busy  here  making  and 
shipping  the  goods.  We  aren't  specially  in- 
terested in  orders  that  the  other  fellow  gets, 
or  in  knowing  how  it  happened  after  it  has 
happened.  If  you  like  life  on  the  road  you 
simply  won't  let  it  happen.  So  just  send  us 
your  address  every  day  and  your  orders. 
They  will  tell  us  all  that  we  want  to  know 
about  "  the  situation/' 

I  was  cured  of  sending  information  to  the 
house  when  I  was  very,  very  young — in  fact, 
on  the  first  trip  which  I  made  on  the  road. 
I  was  traveling  out  of  Chicago  for  Hammer 
&  Hawkins,  wholesale  dry-goods,  gents'  fur- 
nishings and  notions.  They  started  me  out 
to  round  up  trade  in  the  river  towns  down 
Egypt  ways,  near  Cairo. 

I  hadn't  more  than  made  my  first  town 
and  sized  up  the  population  before  I  began 
to  feel  happy,  because  I  saw  that  business 
ought  to  be  very  good  there.  It  appeared  as 
if  everybody  in  that  town  needed  something 
in  my  line.  The  clerk  of  the  hotel  where  I 

'35 


A  SELF-MADE  MERCHANT'S 

registered  wore  a  dicky  and  Ms  cuffs  were 
tied  to  his  neck  by  pieces  of  string  run  up 
his  sleeves,  and  most  of  the  merchants  on 
Main  Street  were  in  their  shirt-sleeves — at 
least  those  that  had  shirts  were — and  so  far 
as  I  could  judge  there  wasn't  a  whole  pair 
of  galluses  among  them.  Some  were  using 
wire,  some  a  little  rope,  and  others  just  faith 
— buckled  extra  tight,  Pride  of  the  Prairie 
XXX  flour  sacks  seemed  to  be  the  nobby 
thing  in  boys'  suitings  there.  Take  it  by  and 
large,  if  ever  there  was  a  town  which  looked 
as  if  it  had  a  big,  short  line  of  dry-goods, 
gents'  furnishings  and  notions  to  cover,  it 
was  that  one. 

But  when  I  caught  the  proprietor  of  the 
general  store  during  a  lull  in  the  demand 
for  navy  plug,  he  wouldn't  even  look  at  my 
samples,  and  when  I  began  to  hint  that  the 
people  were  pretty  ornery  dressers  he  reck- 
oned that  he  "  would  paste  me  one  if  I 
warn't  so  young."  Wanted  to  know  what  I 
meant  by  coming  swelling  around  in  song- 


LETTERS  TO  HIS  SON 

and-dance  clothes  and  getting  funny  at  the 
expense  of  people  who  made  their  living 
honestly.  Allowed  that  when  it  came  to  a 
humorous  get-up  my  clothes  were  the  orig- 
inal end-man's  gag. 

I  noticed  on  the  way  back  to  the  hotel 
that  every  fellow  holding  up  a  hitching-post 
was  laughing,  and  I  began  to  look  up  and 
down  the  street  for  the  joke,  not  understand- 
ing at  first  that  the  reason  why  I  couldn't 
see  it  was  because  I  was  it.  Right  there  I 
began  to  learn  that,  while  the  Prince  of 
Wales  may  wear  the  correct  thing  in  hats, 
it's  safer  when  you're  out  of  his  sphere  of 
influence  to  follow  the  styles  that  the  hotel 
clerk  sets;  that  the  place  to  sell  clothes  is 
in  the  city,  where  every  one  seems  to  have 
plenty  of  them ;  and  that  the  place  to  sell 
mess  pork  is  in  the  country,  where  every 
one  keeps  hogs.  That  is  why  when  a  fellow 
comes  to  me  for  advice  about  moving  to  a 
new  country,  where  there  are  more  oppor- 
tunities, I  advise  him — if  he  is  built  right 

137 


A  MERCHANT'S  LETTERS 

— to  go  to  an  old  city  where  there  is  more 
money. 

I  wrote  in  to  the  house  pretty  often  on 
that  trip,  explaining  how  it  was,  going  over 
the  whole  situation  very  carefully,  and  tell- 
ing what  our  competitors  were  doing,  wher- 
ever I  could  find  that  they  were  doing  any- 
thing. 

I  gave  old  Hammer  credit  for  more  curi- 
osity than  he  possessed,  because  when  I 
reached  Cairo  I  found  a  telegram  from  him 
reading:  "Know  ivhat  our  competitors  are 
doing:  they  are  getting  all  the  trade.  But 
ivhat  are  you  doing?"  I  saw  then  that  the 
time  for  explaining  was  gone  and  that  the 
moment  for  resigning  had  arrived ;  so  I  just 
naturally  sent  in  my  resignation.  That  is 
what  we  will  expect  from  you — or  orders. 
Your  affectionate  father, 

JOHN  GRAHAM. 


138 


No,  11 


FROM  John  Graham, 
at  the  Union  Stock 
Yards  in  Chicago, 
to  his  son,  Pierrepont,  at 
The  Planters'  Palace 
Hotel,  at  Big  Gap,  Ken- 
tucky. Mr.  Pierrepont's 
orders  are  small  and  his 
expenses  are  large,  so  his 
father  feels  pessimistic 
over  his  prospects. 


XI 

CHICAGO,  April  10, 189 — 
Dear  Pierrepont:  You  ought  to  be  feeling 
mighty  thankful  to-day  to  the  fellow  who 
invented  fractions,  because  while  your  sell- 
ing cost  for  last  month  was  within  the  limit, 
it  took  a  good  deal  of  help  from  the  decimal 
system  to  get  it  there.  You  are  in  the  posi' 
tion  of  the  boy  who  was  chased  by  the  bull — 
open  to  congratulations  because  he  reached 
the  tree  first,  and  to  condolence  because  a 
fellow  up  a  tree,  in  the  middle  of  a  forty- 
acre  lot,  with  a  disappointed  bull  for  com- 
pany, is  in  a  mighty  bad  fix. 

I  don't  want  to  bear  down  hard  on  you 
right  at  the  beginning  of  your  life  on  the 
road,  but  I  would  feel  a  good  deal  happier 
over  your  showing  if  you  would  make  a 
downright  failure  or  a  clean-cut  success 
once  in  a  while,  instead  of  always  just 
skinning  through  this  way.  It  looks  to  me 
as  if  you  were  trying  only  half  as  hard  as 
141 


A  SELF-MADE  MERCHANT'S 

you  could,  and  in  trying  it's  the  second  half 
that  brings  results.  If  there's  one  piece  of 
knowledge  that  is  of  less  use  to  a  fellow 
than  knowing  when  he's  beat,  it's  knowing 
when  he's  done  just  enough  work  to  keep 
from  being  fired.  Of  course,  you  are  bright 
enough  to  be  a  half-way  man,  and  to  hold  a 
half-way  place  on  a  half-Way  salary  by 
doing  half  the  work  you  are  capable  of,  but 
you've  got  to  add  dynamite  and  ginger  and 
jounce  to  your  equipment  if  you  want  to  get 
the  other  half  that's  coming  to  you.  You've 
got  to  believe  that  the  Lord  made  the  first 
hog  with  the  Graham  brand  burned  in  the 
skin,  and  that  the  drove  which  rushed  down 
a  steep  place  was  packed  by  a  competitor. 
You've  got  to  know  your  goods  from  A  to 
Izzard,  from  snout  to  tail,  on  the  hoof  and 
in  the  can.  You've  got  to  know  'em  like  a 
young  mother  knows  baby  talk,  and  to  be 
as  proud  of  'em  as  the  young  father  of  a 
twelve-pound  boy,  without  really  thinking 
that  you're  stretching  it  four  pounds. 
142 


LETTERS  TO  HIS  SON 

You've  got  to  believe  in  yourself  and  make 
your  buyers  take  stock  in  you  at  par  and 
accrued  interest.  You've  got  to  have  the 
scent  of  a  bloodhound  for  an  order,  and  the 
grip  of  a  bulldog  on  a  customer.  You've  got 
to  feel  the  same  personal  solicitude  over  a 
bill  of  goods  that  strays  off  to  a  competitor 
as  a  parson  over  a  backslider,  and  hold 
special  services  to  bring  it  back  into  the 
fold.  You've  got  to  get  up  every  morning 
with  determination  if  you're  going  to  go  to 
bed  with  satisfaction.  You've  got  to  eat 
hog,  think  hog,  dream  hog — in  short,  go  the 
whole  hog  if  you're  going  to  win  out  in  the 
pork-packing  business. 

That's  a  pretty  liberal  receipt,  I  know, 
but  it's  intended  for  a  fellow  who  wants  to 
make  a  good-sized  pie.  And  the  only  thing 
you  ever  find  in  pastry  that  you  don't  put 
in  yourself  is  flies. 

You  have  had  a  wide-open  chance  during 
the  last  few  months  to  pick  up  a  good  deal 
about  the  practical  end  of  the  business,  and 

143 


A  SELF-MADE  MERCHANT'S 

have  looked  surprised  when  he  showed  it  to 
you  and  have  said : 

"  I  don't  quite  diagnose  the  case  your 
way,  Mr.  Smith ;  that's  a  blamed  sight  better 
lard  than  I  thought  Muggins  &  Co.  were 
making."  And  you'd  have  driven  a  spike 
right  through  that  fellow's  little  joke  and 
have  nailed  down  his  order  hard  and  tight 
with  the  same  blow. 

What  you  know  is  a  club  for  yourself, 
and  what  you  don't  know  is  a  meat-ax  for 
the  other  fellow.  That  is  why  you  want  to 
be  on  the  lookout  all  the  time  for  informa- 
tion about  the  business,  and  to  nail  a  fact 
just  as  a  sensible  man  nails  a  mosquito — 
the  first  time  it  settles  near  him.  Of  course, 
a  fellow  may  get  another  chance,  but  the 
odds  are  that  if  he  misses  the  first  opening 
he  will  lose  a  good  deal  of  blood  before  he 
gets  the  second. 

Speaking  of  finishing  up  a  subject  as  you 
go  along  naturally  calls  to  mind  the  case  of 
Josh  Jenkinson,  back  in  my  home  town. 
146 


' 


"  Josh  Jenkinson  would  eat  a  little  food 
now  and  then  just  to  be  sociable,  but  what 
be  really  lived  on  was  tobacco. ' ' 


LETTERS  TO  HIS  SON 

As  I  first  remember  Josh,  he  was  just  bone 
and  by-products.  Wasn't  an  ounce  of  real 
meat  on  him.  In  fact,  he  was  so  blamed 
thin  that  when  he  bought  an  outfit  of  clothes 
his  wife  used  to  make  them  over  into  two 
suits  for  him.  Josh  would  eat  a  little  food 
now  and  then,  just  to  be  sociable,  but  what 
he  really  lived  on  was  tobacco.  Usually 
kept  a  chew  in  one  cheek  and  a  cob  pipe  in 
the  other.  He  was  a  powerful  hand  for  a 
joke  and  had  one  of  those  porous  heads  and 
movable  scalps  which  go  with  a  sense  of 
humor  in  a  small  village.  Used  to  scare  us 
boys  by  drawing  in  on  his  pipe  and  letting 
the  smoke  sort  of  leak  out  through  his  eyes 
and  ears  and  nose.  Pretended  that  he  was 
the  devil  and  that  he  was  on  fire  inside.  Old 
Doc  Hoover  caught  him  at  it  once  and  told 
us  that  he  wasn't,  but  allowed  that  he  was 
a  blood  relation. 

Elder  Hoover  was  a  Methodist  off  the  tip 
of  the  sirloin.  There  weren't  any  evasions 
or  generalities  or  metaphors  in  his  religion. 

'47 


A  SELF-MADE  MERCHANT'S 

The  lower  layers  of  the  hereafter  weren't 
Hades  or  Gehenna  with  him,  but  just  plain 
Hell,  and  mighty  hot,  too,  you  bet.  His 
creed  was  built  of  sheet  iron  and  bolted  to- 
gether with  inch  rivets.  He  kept  the  fire 
going  under  the  boiler  night  and  day,  and 
he  was  so  blamed  busy  stoking  it  that  he 
didn't  have  much  time  to  map  out  the  golden 
streets.  When  he  blew  off  it  was  super- 
heated steam  and  you  could  see  the  sinners 
who  were  in  range  fairly  sizzle  and  parboil 
and  shrivel  up.  There  was  no  give  in  Doc; 
no  compromises  with  creditors ;  no  fire  sales. 
He  wasn't  one  of  those  elders  who  would  let 
a  fellow  dance  the  lancers  if  he'd  swear  off 
on  waltzing;  or  tell  him  it  was  all  right  to 
play  whist  in  the  parlor  if  he'd  give  up 
penny-ante  at  the  Dutchman's;  or  wink  at 
his  smoking  if  he'd  quit  whisky. 

Josh  knew  this,  so  he  kept  away  from 

the  camp-meeting,  though  the  Elder  gunned 

for  him  pretty  steady  for  a  matter  of  five 

years.    But  one  summer  when  the  meetings 

148 


LETTERS  TO  HIS  SON 

were  extra  interesting,  it  got  so  lonesome 
sitting  around  with  the  whole  town  off  in 
the  woods  that  Josh  sneaked  out  to  the  edge 
of  the  carnp  and  hid  behind  some  bushes 
where  he  could  hear  what  was  going  on. 
The  elder  was  carrying  about  two  hundred 
and  fifty  pounds,  by  the  gauge,  that  day, 
and  with  that  pressure  he  naturally  traveled 
into  the  sinners  pretty  fast.  The  first  thing 
Josh  knew  he  was  out  from  under  cover  and 
a-hallelujahing  down  between  the  seats  to 
the  mourners'  bench.  When  the  elder  saw 
what  was  coming  he  turned  on  the  forced 
draft.  Inside  of  ten  minutes  he  had  Josh 
under  conviction  and  had  taken  his  pipe 
and  plug  away  from  him. 

I  ain  just  a  little  inclined  to  think  that 
Josh  would  have  backslid  if  he  hadn't  been 
a  practical  joker,  and  a  critter  of  that  breed 
is  about  as  afraid  of  a  laugh  on  himself  as 
a  raw  colt  of  a  steam  roller.  So  he  stuck  it 
out,  and  began  to  take  an  interest  in  meal 
time.  Kicked  because  it  didn't  come  eight 
149 


A  SELF-MADE  MERCHANTS 

or  ten  times  a  day.  The  first  thing  he  knew 
he  had  fatted  up  till  he  filled  out  his  half 
suit  and  had  to  put  it  away  in  camphor. 
Then  he  bought  a  whole  suit,  living-skeleton 
size.  In  two  weeks  he  had  strained  a  shoul- 
der seam  and  looked  as  if  he  was  wearing 
tights.  So  he  retired  it  from  circulation 
and  moved  up  a  size.  That  one  was  a  little 
loose,  and  it  took  him  a  good  month  to 
crowd  it. 

Josh  was  a  pretty  hefty  man  now,  but  he 
kept  right  on  bulging  out,  building  on  an 
addition  here  and  putting  out  a  bay  window 
there,  all  the  time  retiring  new  suits,  until 
his  wife  had  fourteen  of  them  laid  away  in 
the  chest 

Said  it  didn't  worry  him;  that  he  was 
bound  to  lose  flesh  sooner  or  later.  That 
he  would  catch  them  on  the  way  down,  and 
wear  them  out  one  at  a  time.  But  when  he 
got  up  to  three  hundred  and  fifty  pounds 
he  just  stuck.  Tried  exercise  and  dieting 
and  foreign  waters,  but  he  couldn't  budge 
150 


LETTERS  TO  HIS  SON 

an  ounce.  In  the  end  he  had  to  give  the 
clothes  to  the  Widow  Doolan,  who  had  four- 
teen sons  in  assorted  sizes. 

I  simply  mention  Josh  in  passing  as  an 
example  of  the  fact  that  a  fellow  can't  bank 
on  getting  a  chance  to  go  back  and  take  np 
a  thing  that  he  has  passed  over  once,  and 
to  call  your  attention  to  the  fact  that  a  man 
who  knows  his  own  business  thoroughly  will 
find  an  opportunity  sooner  or  later  of  reach- 
ing the  most  hardened  cuss  of  a  buyer  on  his 
route  and  of  getting  a  share  of  his. 

I  want  to  caution  you  right  here  against 
learning  all  there  is  to  know  about  pork- 
packing  too  quick.  Business  is  a  good  deal 
like  a  nigger's  wool — it  doesn't  look  very 
deep,  but  there  are  a  heap  of  kinks  and 
curves  in  it. 

When  I  was  a  boy  and  the  fellow  in  pink 
tights  came  into  the  ring,  I  used  to  think 
he  was  doing  all  that  could  be  reasonably 
expected  when  he  kept  eight  or  ten  glass 
balls  going  in  the  air  at  once.  But  the 


A  SELF-MADE  MERCHANT'S 

beautiful  lady  in  the  blue  tights  would  keep 
right  on  handing  him  things — kerosene 
lamps  and  carving  knives  and  miscellaneous 
cutlery  and  crockery,  and  he  would  get  them 
going,  too,  without  losing  his  happy  smile. 
The  great  trouble  with  most  young  fellows 
is  that  they  think  they  have  learned  all  they 
need  to  know  and  have  given  the  audience 
its  money's  worth  when  they  can  keep  the 
glass  balls  going,  and  so  they  balk  at  the 
kerosene  lamps  and  the  rest  of  the  imple- 
ments of  light  housekeeping.  But  there's 
no  real  limit  to  the  amount  of  extras  a  fel- 
low with  the  right  stuff  in  him  will  take  on 
without  losing  his  grin. 

I  want  to  see  you  come  up  smiling;  I 
want  to  feel  you  in  the  business,  not  only 
on  pay  day  but  every  other  day.  I  want  to 
know  that  you  are  running  yourself  full 
time  and  overtime,  stocking  up  your  brain 
so  that  when  the  demand  comes  you  will 
have  the  goods  to  offer.  So  far,  you  promise 
to  make  a  fair  to  ordinary  salesman  among 


LETTERS  TO  HIS  SON 

our  retail  trade.  I  want  to  see  you  grow 
into  a  car-lot  man — so  strong  and  big  that 
you  will  force  us  to  see  that  you  are  out 
of  place  among  the  little  fellows.  Buck  up ! 
Your  affectionate  father, 

JOHN  GRAHAM. 


153 


A  SELF-MADE  MERCHANT'S 

beautiful  lady  in  the  blue  tights  would  keep 
right  on  handing  him  things — kerosene 
lamps  and  carving  knives  and  miscellaneous 
cutlery  and  crockery,  and  he  would  get  them 
going,  too,  without  losing  his  happy  smile. 
The  great  trouble  with  most  young  fellows 
is  that  they  think  they  have  learned  all  they 
need  to  know  and  have  given  the  audience 
its  money's  worth  when  they  can  keep  the 
glass  balls  going,  and  so  they  balk  at  the 
kerosene  lamps  and  the  rest  of  the  imple- 
ments of  light  housekeeping.  But  there's 
no  real  limit  to  the  amount  of  extras  a  fel- 
low with  the  right  stuff  in  him  will  take  on 
without  losing  his  grin. 

I  want  to  see  you  come  up  smiling;  I 
want  to  feel  you  in  the  business,  not  only 
on  pay  day  but  every  other  day.  I  want  to 
know  that  you  are  running  yourself  full 
time  and  overtime,  stocking  up  your  brain 
so  that  when  the  demand  comes  you  will 
have  the  goods  to  offer.  So  far,  you  promise 
to  make  a  fair  to  ordinary  salesman  among 


LETTERS  TO  HIS  SON 

our  retail  trade.  I  want  to  see  you  grow 
into  a  car-lot  man — so  strong  and  big  that 
you  will  force  us  to  see  that  you  are  out 
of  place  among  the  little  fellows.  Buck  up ! 
Your  affectionate  father, 

JOHN  GRAHAM. 


153 


No,  12 


FROM  John  Graham, 
at  the  Union  Stock 
Yards  in  Chicago, 
to  his  son,  Pierrepont,  at 
Little  Uelmonico's,  Prairie 
Centre,  Indiana.  Mr. 
Pierrepont  has  annoyed 
his  father  by  accepting  his 
criticisms  in  a  spirit  of 
gentle,  but  most  repre- 
hensible, resignation. 


XII 

CHICAGO,  April  15,  189 — 
Dear  Pierrepont:  Don't  ever  write  me  an- 
other of  those  sad,  sweet,  gentle  sufferer 
letters.  It's  only  natural  that  a  colt  should 
kick  a  trifle  when  he's  first  hitched  up  to 
the  break  wagon,  and  I'm  always  a  little  sus- 
picious of  a  critter  that  stands  too  quiet 
under  the  whip.  I  know  it's  not  meekness, 
but  meanness,  that  I've  got  to  fight,  and  it's 
hard  to  tell  which  is  the  worst. 

The  only  animal  which  the  Bible  calls 
patient  is  an  ass,  and  that's  both  good  doc- 
trine and  good  natural  history.  For  I  had 
to  make  considerable  of  a  study  of  the  Mis- 
souri mule  when  I  was  a  boy,  and  I  discov- 
ered that  he's  not  really  patient,  but  that 
he  only  pretends  to  be.  You  can  cuss 
him  out  till  you've  nothing  but  holy 
thoughts  left  in  you  to  draw  on,  and  you 
can  lay  the  rawhide  on  him  till  he's  striped 
like  a  circus  zebra,  and  if  you're  cautious 

'57 


A  SELF-MADE  MERCHANTS 

and  reserved  in  his  company  he  will  just 
look  grieved  and  pained  and  resigned.  But 
all  the  time  that  mule  will  be  getting  meaner 
and  meaner  inside,  adding  compound  cuss- 
edness  every  thirty  days,  and  practicing 
drop  kicks  in  his  stall  after  dark. 

Of  course,  nothing  in  this  world  is  wholly 
bad,  not  even  a  mule,  for  he  is  half  horse. 
But  my  observation  has  taught  me  that  the 
horse  half  of  him  is  the  front  half,  and 
that  the  only  really  safe  way  to  drive  him 
is  hind-side  first.  I  suppose  that  you  could 
train  one  to  travel  that  way,  but  it  really 
doesn't  seem  worth  while  when  good  road- 
sters are  so  cheap. 

That's  the  way  I  feel  about  these  young 
fellows  who  lazy  along  trying  to  turn  in  at 
every  gate  where  there  seems  to  be  a  little 
shade,  and  sulking  and  balking  whenever 
you  say  "  git-ap  "  to  them.  They  are  the 
men  who  are  always  howling  that  Bill 
Smith  was  promoted  because  he  had  a  pull, 
and  that  they  are  being  held  down  because 


LETTERS  TO  HIS  SON 

the  manager  is  jealous  of  them.  Fve  seen  a 
good  many  pulls  in  my  time,  but  I  never 
saw  one  strong  enough  to  lift  a  man  any 
higher  than  he  could  raise  himself  by  his 
boot  straps,  or  long  enough  to  reach  through 
the  cashier's  window  for  more  money  than 
its  owner  earned. 

When  a  fellow  brags  that  he  has  a  pull, 
he's  a  liar  or  his  employer's  a  fool.  And 
when  a  fellow  whines  that  he's  being  held 
down,  the  truth  is,  as  a  general  thing,  that 
his  boss  can't  hold  him  up.  He  just  picks 
a  nice,  soft  spot,  stretches  out  flat  on  his 
back,  and  yells  that  some  heartless  brute 
has  knocked  him  down  and  is  sitting  on  his 
chest. 

A  good  man  is  as  full  of  bounce  as  a  cat 
with  a  small  boy  and  a  bull  terrier  after 
him.  When  he's  thrown  to  the  dog  from 
the  second-story  window,  he  fixes  while  he's 
sailing  through  the  air  to  land  right,  and 
when  the  dog  jumps  for  the  spot  where  he 
hits,  he  isn't  there,  but  in  the  top  of  the 

'59 


A  SELF-MADE  MERCHANTS 

tree  across  the  street.  He's  a  good  deal  like 
the  little  red-headed  cuss  that  we  saw  in 
the  football  game  you  took  me  to.  Every 
time  the  herd  stampeded  it  would  start  in 
to  trample  and  paw  and  gore  him.  One 
minute  the  whole  bunch  would  be  on  top 
of  him  and  the  next  he  would  be  loping  off 
down  the  range,  spitting  out  hair  and  pieces 
of  canvas  jacket,  or  standing  on  one  side  as 
cool  as  a  hog  on  ice,  watching  the  mess  un- 
snarl and  the  removal  of  the  cripples. 

I  didn't  understand  football,  but  I  under- 
stood that  little  sawed-off.  He  knew  his 
business.  And  when  a  fellow  knows  his 
business,  he  doesn't  have  to  explain  to  peo- 
ple that  he  does.  It  isn't  what  a  man  knows, 
but  what  he  thinks  he  knows  that  he  brags 
about.  Big  talk  means  little  knowledge. 

There's  a  vast  difference  between  having 
a  carload  of  miscellaneous  facts  sloshing 
around  loose  in  your  head  and  getting  all 
mixed  up  in  transit,  and  carrying  the  same 
assortment  properly  boxed  and  crated  for 
1 60 


LETTERS  TO  HIS  SON 

convenient  handling  and  immediate  de- 
livery. A  ham  never  weighs  so  much  as 
when  it's  half  cured.  When  it  has  soaked 
in  all  the  pickle  that  it  can,  it  has  to  sweat 
out  most  of  it  in  the  smoke-house  before  it 
is  any  real  good;  and  when  you've  soaked 
up  all  the  information  you  can  hold,  you 
will  have  to  forget  half  of  it  before  you  will 
be  of  any  real  use  to  the  house.  If  there's 
anything  worse  than  knowing  too  little,  it's 
knowing  too  much.  Education  will  broaden 
a  narrow  mind,  but  there's  no  known  cure 
for  a  big  head.  The  best  you  can  hope  is 
that  it  will  swell  up  and  bust;  and  then,  of 
course,  there's  nothing  left.  Poverty  never 
spoils  a  good  man,  but  prosperity  often  does. 
It's  easy  to  stand  hard  times,  because  that's 
the  only  thing  you  can  do,  but  in  good  times 
the  fool-killer  has  to  do  night  work. 

I  simply  mention  these  things  in  a  general 

way.    A  good  many  of  them  don't  apply  to 

you,  no  doubt,  but  it  won't  do  any  harm 

to  make  sure.     Most  men    get    cross-eyed 

161 


A  SELF-MADE  MERCHANTS 

when  they  come  to  size  themselves  up,  and 
see  an  angel  instead  of  what  they're  trying 
to  look  at.  There's  nothing  that  tells  the 
truth  to  a  woman  like  a  mirror,  or  that  lies 
harder  to  a  man. 

What  I  am  sure  of  is  that  you  have  got 
the  sulks  too  quick.  If  you  knew  all  that 
you'll  have  to  learn  before  you'll  be  a  big, 
broad-gauged  merchant,  you  might  have 
something  to  be  sulky  about, 

When  you've  posted  yourself  properly 
about  the  business  you'll  have  taken  a  step 
in  the  right  direction — you  will  be  able  to 
get  your  buyer's  attention.  All  the  other 
steps  are  those  which  lead  you  into  his  con- 
fidence. 

Eight  here  you  will  discover  that  you  are 
in  the  fix  of  the  young  fellow  who  married 
his  best  girl  and  took  her  home  to  live  with 
his  mother.  He  found  that  the  only  way  in 
which  he  could  make  one  happy  was  by 
making  the  other  mad,  and  that  when  he 
tried  to  make  them  both  happy  he  only  sue- 
162 


LETTERS  TO  HIS  SON 

ceeded  in  making  them  both  mad.  Naturally, 
in  the  end,  his  wife  divorced  him  and  his 
mother  disinherited  him,  and  left  her  money 
to  an  orphan  asylum,  because,  as  she  sen- 
sibly observed  in  the  codicil,  "  orphans  can 
not  be  ungrateful  to  their  parents."  But  if 
the  man  had  had  a  little  tact  he  would  have 
kept  them  in  separate  houses,  and  have  let 
each  one  think  that  she  was  getting  a  trifle 
the  best  of  it,  without  really  giving  it  to 
either. 

Tact  is  the  knack  of  keeping  quiet  at  the 
right  time;  of  being  so  agreeable  yourself 
that  no  one  can  be  disagreeable  to  you;  of 
making  inferiority  feel  like  equality.  A 
tactful  man  can  pull  the  stinger  from  a  bee 
without  getting  stung. 

Some  men  deal  in  facts,  and  call  Bill 
Jones  a  liar.  They  get  knocked  down. 
Some  men  deal  in  subterfuges,  and  say  that 
Bill  Jones'  father  was  a  kettle-rendered  liar, 
and  that  his  mother's  maiden  name  was 
Sapphira,  and  that  any  one  who  believes  in 

163 


A  SELF-MADE  MERCHANT'S 

the  Darwinian  theory  should  pity  rather 
than  blame  their  son.  They  get  disliked. 
But  your  tactful  man  says  that  since  Baron 
Munchausen  no  one  has  been  so  chuck  full 
of  bully  reminiscences  as  Bill  Jones;  and 
when  that  comes  back  to  Bill  he  is  half 
tickled  to  death,  because  he  doesn't  know 
that  the  higher  criticism  has  hurt  the 
Baron's  reputation.  That  man  gets  the 
trade. 

There  are  two  kinds  of  information:  one 
to  which  everybody's  entitled,  and  that  is 
taught  at  school;  and  one  which  nobody 
ought  to  know  except  yourself,  and  that  is 
what  you  think  of  Bill  Jones.  Of  course, 
where  you  feel  a  man  is  not  square  you  will 
be  armed  to  meet  him,  but  never  on  his  own 
ground.  Make  him  be  honest  with  you  if 
you  can,  but  don't  let  him  make  you  dis- 
honest with  him. 

When  you  make  a  mistake,  don't  make 
the  second  one — keeping  it  to  yourself. 
Own  up.  The  time  to  sort  out  rotten  eggs 
164 


LETTERS  TO  HIS  SON 

is  at  the  nest.  The  deeper  you  hide  them  in 
the  case  the  longer  they  stay  in  circulation, 
and  the  worse  impression  they  make  when 
they  finally  come  to  the  breakfast-table.  A 
mistake  sprouts  a  lie  when  you  cover  it  up. 
And  one  lie  breeds  enough  distrust  to  choke 
out  the  prettiest  crop  of  confidence  that  a 
fellow  ever  cultivated. 

Of  course,  it's  easy  to  have  the  confidence 
of  the  house,  or  the  confidence  of  the  buyer, 
but  you've  got  to  have  both.  The  house  pays 
you  your  salary,  and  the  buyer  helps  you 
earn  it.  If  you  skin  the  buyer  you  will 
lose  your  trade;  and  if  you  play  tag  with 
the  house  you  will  lose  your  job.  You've 
simply  got  to  walk  the  fence  straight,  for 
if  you  step  to  either  side  you'll  find  a  good 
deal  of  air  under  you. 

Even  after  you  are  able  to  command  the 
attention  and  the  confidence  of  your  buyers, 
you've  got  to  be  up  and  dressed  all  day  to 
hold  what  trade  is  yours,  and  twisting  and 
turning  all  night  to  wriggle  into  some  of 


A  SELF-MADE  MERCHANT'S 

the  other  fellow's.  When  business  is  good, 
that  is  the  time  to  force  it,  because  it  will 
come  easy;  and  when  it  is  bad,  that  is  the 
time  to  force  it,  too,  because  we  will  need 
the  orders. 

Speaking  of  making  trade  naturally  calls 
to  my  mind  my  old  acquaintance,  Herr 
Doctor  Paracelsus  Von  Munsterberg,  who, 
when  I  was  a  boy,  came  to  our  town  "  fresh 
from  his  healing  triumphs  at  the  Courts  of 
Europe,"  as  his  handbills  ran,  "  not  to  make 
money,  but  to  confer  on  suffering  mankind 
the  priceless  boon  of  health;  to  make  the 
sick  well,  and  the  well  better." 

Munsterberg  wasn't  one  of  your  common, 
coarse,  county-fair  barkers.  He  was  a  pretty 
high-toned  article.  Had  nice,  curly  black 
hair  and  didn't  spare  the  bear's  grease. 
Wore  a  silk  hat  and  a  Prince  Albert  coat  all 
the  time,  except  when  he  was  orating,  and 
then  he  shed  the  coat  to  get  freer  action 
with  his  arms.  And  when  he  talked  he  used 
the  whole  language,  you  bet. 
166 


"  Herr  Doctor  Paracelsus  Von  Mun- 
sterberg  was  a  pretty  high-toned  article? ' 


LETTERS  TO  HIS  SON 

Of  course,  the  Priceless  Boon  was  put  up 
in  bottles,  labeled  Munsterberg's  Miraculous 
Medical  Discovery,  and,  simply  to  introduce 
it,  he  was  willing  to  sell  the  small  size  at 
fifty  cents  and  the  large  one  at  a  dollar.  In 
addition  to  being  a  philanthropist  the  Doc- 
tor was  quite  a  hand  at  card  tricks,  played 
the  banjo,  sung  coon  songs  and  imitated  a 
saw  going  through  a  board  very  creditably. 
All  these  accomplishments,  and  the  story 
of  how  he  cured  the  Emperor  of  Austria's 
sister  with  a  single  bottle,  drew  a  crowd, 
but  they  didn't  sell  a  drop  of  the  Discovery. 
Nobody  in  town  was  really  sick,  and  those 
who  thought  they  were  had  stocked  up  the 
week  before  with  Quackenboss'  Quick  Qui- 
nine Kure  from  a  fellow  that  made  just  as 
liberal  promises  as  Munsterberg  and  sold 
the  large  size  at  fifty  cents,  including  a 
handsome  reproduction  of  an  old  master  for 
the  parlor. 

Some  fellows  would  just  have  cussed  a 
little  and  have  moved  on  to  the  next  town, 

167 


A  SELF-MADE  MERCHANT'S 

but  Munsterberg  made  a  beautiful  speech, 
praising  the  climate,  and  saying  that  in  his 
humble  capacity  he  had  been  privileged  to 
meet  the  strength  and    beauty    of    many 
Courts,  but  never  had  he  been  in  any  place 
where  strength  was  stronger  or  beauty  beau- 
tifuller  than  right  here  in  Hoskins'  Corners. 
He  prayed  with  all  his  heart,  though  it 
was  almost  too  much  to  hope,  that  the  chol- 
era, which  was  raging  in  Kentucky,  would 
pass  this  Eden  by;  that  the  yellow  fever, 
which  was    devastating    Tennessee,  would 
halt    abashed    before    this    stronghold    of 
health,  though  he  felt  bound  to  add  that  it 
was  a  peculiarly  malignant  and  persistent 
disease ;  that  the  smallpox,  which  was  creep- 
ing southward  from  Canada,  would  smite 
the  next  town  instead  of  ours,  though  he 
must  own  that  it  was  no  respecter  of  per- 
sons; that  the  diphtheria  and  scarlet-fever, 
which  were  sweeping  over  New  England 
and  crowding  the  graveyards,  could  be  kept 
from  crossing  the  Hudson,  though  they  were 
168 


LETTERS  TO  HIS  SON 

great  travelers  and  it  was  well  to  be  pre- 
pared for  tlie  worst;  that  we  one  and  all 
might  providentially  escape  chills,  head- 
aches, coated  tongue,  pains  in  the  back,  loss 
of  sleep  and  that  tired  feeling,  but  it  was 
almost  too  much  to  ask,  even  of  such  a  gen- 
erous climate.  In  any  event,  he  begged  us 
to  beware  of  worthless  nostrums  and  base 
imitations.  It  made  him  sad  to  think  that 
to-day  we  were  here  and  that  to-morrow 
we  were  running  up  an  undertaker's  bill,  all 
for  the  lack  of  a  small  bottle  of  Medicine's 
greatest  gift  to  Man. 

I  could  see  that  this  speech  made  a  lot  of 
women  in  the  crowd  powerful  uneasy,  and  I 
heard  the  Widow  Judkins  say  that  she  was 
afraid  it  was  going  to  be  "  a  mighty  sickly 
winter,"  and  she  didn't  know  as  it  would  do 
any  harm  to  have  some  of  that  stuff  in  the 
house.  But  the  Doctor  didn't  offer  the 
Priceless  Boon  for  sale  again.  He  went 
right  from  his  speech  into  an  imitation  of  a 
dog,  with  a  tin  can  tied  to  his  tail,  running 
169 


A  SELF-MADE  MERCHANT'S 

down  Main  Street  and  crawling  under  Si 
Hooper's  store  at  the  far  end  of  it — an  imi- 
tation, he  told  us,  to  which  the  Sultan  was 
powerful  partial,  "  him  being  a  cruel  man 
and  delighting  in  torturing  the  poor  dumb 
beasts  which  the  Lord  has  given  us  to  love, 
honor  and  cherish." 

He  kept  this  sort  of  thing  up  till  he  judged 
it  was  our  bedtime,  and  then  he  thanked  us 
"  one  and  all  for  our  kind  attention,"  and 
said  that  as  his  mission  in  life  was  to  amuse 
as  well  as  to  heal,  he  would  stay  over  till 
the  next  afternoon  and  give  a  special 
matine'e  for  the  little  ones,  whom  he  loved 
for  the  sake  of  his  own  golden-haired  Willie, 
back  there  over  the  Khine. 

Naturally,  all  the  women  and  children 
turned  out  the  next  afternoon,  though  the 
men  had  to  be  at  work  in  the  fields  and  the 
stores,  and  the  Doctor  just  made  us  roar  for 
half  an  hour.  Then,  while  he  was  singing 
an  uncommon  funny  song,  Mrs.  Brown's 
Johnny  let  out  a  howl. 
170 


LETTERS  TO  HIS  SON 

The  Doctor  stopped  short.  "  Bring  the 
poor  little  sufferer  here,  Madam,  and  let  me 
see  if  I  can  soothe  his  agony,"  says  he. 

Mrs.  Brown  was  a  good  deal  embarrassed 
and  more  scared,  but  she  pushed  Johnny, 
yelling  all  the  time,  up  to  the  Doctor,  who 
began  tapping  him  on  the  back  and  looking 
down  his  throat.  Naturally,  this  made 
Johnny  cry  all  the  harder,  and  his  mother 
was  beginning  to  explain  that  she  "  reckoned 
she  must  have  stepped  on  his  sore  toe," 
when  the  Doctor  struck  his  forehead,  cried 
"  Eureka ! ",  whipped  out  a  bottle  of  the 
Priceless  Boon,  and  forced  a  spoonful  of  it 
into  Johnny's  mouth.  Then  he  gave  the  boy 
three  slaps  on  the  back  and  three  taps  on 
the  stomach,  ran  one  hand  along  his  wind- 
pipe, and  took  a  small  button-hook  out  of 
his  mouth  with  the  other. 

Johnny  made  all  his  previous  attempts  at 

yelling  sound  like  an  imitation  when  he  saw 

this,  and  he  broke  away  and  ran  toward 

home.    Then  the  Doctor  stuck  one  hand  in 

171 


A  SELF-MADE  MERCHANT'S 

over  the  top  of  his  vest,  waved  the  button- 
hook in  the  other,  and  cried :  "  Woman,  your 
child  is  cured !  Your  button-hook  is  found !  " 

Then  he  went  on  to  explain  that  when 
baby  swallowed  safety-pins,  or  pennies,  or 
fish-bones,  or  button-hooks,  or  any  little 
household  articles,  that  all  you  had  to  do 
was  to  give  it  a  spoonful  of  the  Priceless 
Boon,  tap  it  gently  fore  and  aft,  hold  your 
hand  under  its  mouth,  and  the  little  article 
would  drop  out  like  chocolate  from  a  slot 
machine. 

Every  one  was  talking  at  once,  now,  and 
nobody  had  any  time  for  Mrs.  Brown,  who 
was  trying  to  say  something.  Finally  she 
got  mad  and  followed  Johnny  home.  Half 
an  hour  later  the  Doctor  drove  out  of  the 
Corners,  leaving  his  stock  of  the  Priceless 
Boon  distributed — for  the  usual  considera- 
tion— among  all  the  mothers  in  town. 

It  was  not  until  the  next  day  that  Mrs. 
Brown  got  a  chance  to  explain  that  while 
the  Boon  might  be  all  that  the  Doctor 
172 


LETTERS  TO  HIS  SON 

claimed  for  it,  no  one  in  her  house  had  ever 
owned  a  button-hook,  because  her  old  man 
wore  jack-boots  and  she  wore  congress  shoes, 
and  little  Johnny  wore  just  plain  feet. 

I  simply  mention  the  Doctor  in  passing, 
not  as  an  example  in  morals,  but  in  methods. 
Some  salesmen  think  that  selling  is  like 
eating — to  satisfy  an  existing  appetite;  but 
a  good  salesman  is  like  a  good  cook — he 
can  create  an  appetite  when  the  buyer  isn't 
hungry. 

I  don't  care  how  good  old  methods  are, 
new  ones  are  better,  even  if  they're  only 
just  as  good.  That's  not  so  Irish  as  it 
sounds.  Doing  the  same  thing  in  the  same 
way  year  after  year  is  like  eating  a  quail 
a  day  for  thirty  days.  Along  toward  the 
middle  of  the  month  a  fellow  begins  to  long 
for  a  broiled  crow  or  a  slice  of  cold  dog. 
Your  affectionate  father, 

JOHN  GRAHAM. 


173 


No,  13 


FROM  John  Graham, 
at  the  Union  Stock 
Yards  in  Chicago, 
to  his  son,  Pierrepont, 
care  of  The  Hoosier  Gro- 
cery Co.,  Indianapolis,  In- 
diana. Mr.  Pierrepont's 
orders  have  been  looking 
up,  so  the  old  man  gives 
him  a  pat  on  the  back  — 
but  not  too  hard  a  one. 


XIII 

CHICAGO,  May  10,  189— 
Dear  Pierrepont:  That  order  for  a  car- 
load of  Spotless  Snow  Leaf  from  old  Shorter 
is  the  kind  of  back  talk  I  like.  We  can 
stand  a  little  more  of  the  same  sort  of  sass- 
ing.  I  have  told  the  cashier  that  you  will 
draw  thirty  a  week  after  this,  and  I  want 
you  to  have  a  nice  suit  of  clothes  made  and 
send  the  bill  to  the  old  man.  Get  something 
that  won't  keep  people  guessing  whether 
you  follow  the  horses  or  do  buck  and  wing 
dancing  for  a  living.  Your  taste  in  clothes 
seems  to  be  lasting  longer  than  the  rest  of 
your  college  education.  You  looked  like  a 
young  widow  who  had  raised  the  second 
crop  of  daisies  over  the  deceased  when  you 
were  in  here  last  week. 

Of  course,  clothes  don't  make  the  man, 
but  they  make  all  of  him  except  his  hands 
and  face  during  business  hours,  and  that's 
a  pretty  considerable  area  of  the  human  ani- 

177 


A  SELF-MADE  MERCHANTS 

mal.  A  dirty  shirt  may  hide  a  pure  heart, 
but  it  seldom  covers  a  clean  skin.  If  you 
look  as  if  you  had  slept  in  your  clothes,  most 
men  will  jump  to  the  conclusion  that  you 
have,  and  you  will  never  get  to  know  them 
well  enough  to  explain  that  your  head  is  so 
full  of  noble  thoughts  that  you  haven't  time 
to  bother  with  the  dandruff  on  your  shoul- 
ders. And  if  you  wear  blue  and  white 
striped  pants  and  a  red  necktie,  you  will 
find  it  difficult  to  get  close  enough  to  a  dea- 
con to  be  invited  to  say  grace  at  his  table, 
even  if  you  never  play  for  anything  except 
coffee  or  beans. 

Appearances  are  deceitful,  I  know,  but  so 
long  as  they  are,  there's  nothing  like  having 
them  deceive  for  us  instead  of  against  us. 
I've  seen  a  ten-cent  shave  and  a  five-cent 
shine  get  a  thousand-dollar  job,  and  a  cigar- 
ette and  a  pint  of  champagne  knock  the  bot- 
tom out  of  a  million-dollar  pork  corner. 
Four  or  five  years  ago  little  Jim  Jackson 
had  the  bears  in  the  provision  pit  hibernat- 


LETTERS  TO  HIS  SON 

ing  and  living  on  their  own  fat  till  one 
morning,  the  day  after  he  had  run  the  price 
of  niess  pork  up  to  twenty  dollars  and  nailed 
it  there,  some  one  saw  him  drinking  a  small 
bottle  just  before  he  went  on  'Change,  and 
told  it  round  among  the  brokers  on  the 
floor.  The  bears  thought  Jim  must  have 
had  bad  news,  to  be  bracing  up  at  that  time 
in  the  morning,  so  they  perked  up  and  ever- 
lastingly sold  the  mess  pork  market  down 
through  the  bottom  of  the  pit  to  solid  earth. 
There  wasn't  even  a  grease  spot  left  of  that 
corner  when  they  got  through.  As  it  hap- 
pened, Jim  hadn't  had  any  bad  news;  he 
just  took  the  drink  because  he  felt  pretty 
good,  and  things  were  coming  his  way. 

But  it  isn't  enough  to  be  all  right  in  this 
world;  you've  got  to  look  all  right  as  well, 
because  two-thirds  of  success  is  making  peo- 
ple think  you  are  all  right.  So  you  have 
to  be  governed  by  general  rules,  even  though 
you  may  be  an  exception.  People  have  seen 
four  and  four  make  eight,  and  the  young 
179 


A  SELF-MADE  MERCHANT'S 

man  and  the  small  bottle  make  a  damned 
fool  so  often  that  they  are  hard  to  convince 
that  the  combination  can  work  out  any  other 
way.  The  Lord  only  allows  so  much  fun 
for  every  man  that  He  makes.  Some  get  it 
going  fishing  most  of  the  time  and  making 
money  the  rest;  some  get  it  making  money 
most  of  the  time  and  going  fishing  the  rest. 
You  can  take  your  choice,  but  the  two  lines 
of  business  don't  gee.  The  more  money,  the 
less  fish.  The  farther  you  go,  the  straighter 
you've  got  to  walk. 

I  used  to  get  a  heap  of  solid  comfort  out 
of  chewing  tobacco.  Picked  up  the  habit  in 
Missouri,  and  took  to  it  like  a  Yankee  to 
pie.  At  that  time  pretty  much  every  one  in 
those  parts  chewed,  except  the  Elder  and 
the  women,  and  most  of  them  snuffed. 
Seemed  a  nice,  sociable  habit,  and  I  never 
thought  anything  special  about  it  till  I 
came  North  and  your  Ma  began  to  tell  me 
it  was  a  vile  relic  of  barbarism,  meaning 
Missouri,  I  suppose.  Then  I  confined  opera- 
180 


LETTERS  TO  HIS  SON 

tions  to  my  office  and  took  to  fine  cut  in- 
stead of  plug,  as  being  tonier. 

Well,  one  day,  about  ten  years  ago,  when 
I  was  walking  through  the  office,  I  noticed 
one  of  the  boys  on  the  mailing-desk,  a 
mighty  likely-looking  youngster,  sort  of 
working  his  jaws  as  he  wrote.  I  didn't  stop 
to  think,  but  somehow  I  was  mad  in  a  min- 
ute. Still,  I  didn't  say  a  word — just  stood 
and  looked  at  him  while  he  speeded  up  the 
way  the  boys  will  when  they  think  the  old 
man  is  nosing  around  to  see  whose  salary  he 
can  raise  next. 

I  stood  over  him  for  a  matter  of  five  min- 
utes, and  all  the  time  he  was  pretending 
not  to  see  me  at  all.  I  will  say  that  he 
was  a  pretty  game  boy,  for  he  never  weak- 
ened for  a  second.  But  at  last,  seeing  he 
was  about  to  choke  to  death,  I  said,  sharp 
and  sudden — "  Spit." 

Well,  sir,  I  thought  it  was  a  cloudburst. 
You  can  bet  I  was  pretty  hot,  and  I  started 
in  to  curl  up  that  young  fellow  to  a  crisp. 
181 


A  SELF-MADE  MERCHANT'S 

But  before  I  got  out  a  word,  something  hit 
me  all  of  a  sudden,  and  I  just  went  up  to 
the  boy  and  put  my  hand  on  his  shoulder 
and  said,  "  Let's  swear  off,  son." 

Naturally,  he  swore  off — he  was  so  blamed 
scared  that  he  would  have  quit  breathing  if 
I  had  asked  him  to,  I  reckon.  And  I  had 
to  take  my  stock  of  fine  cut  and  send  it  to 
the  heathen. 

I  simply  mention  this  little  incident  in 
passing  as  an  example  of  the  fact  that  a 
man  can't  do  what  he  pleases  in  this  world, 
because  the  higher  he  climbs  the  plainer 
people  can  see  him.  Naturally,  as  the  old 
man's  son,  you  have  a  lot  of  fellows  watch- 
ing you  and  betting  that  you  are  no  good. 
If  you  succeed  they  will  say  it  was  an  acci- 
dent; and  if  you  fail  they  will  say  it  was  a 
cinch. 

There  are  two  unpardonable  sins  in  this 

world — success    and    failure.      Those  who 

succeed  can't  forgive  a  fellow  for  being  a 

failure,  and  those  who  fail  can't  forgive  him 

182 


LETTERS  TO  HIS  SON 

for  being  a  success.  If  you  do  succeed, 
though,  you  will  be  too  busy  to  bother  very 
much  about  what  the  failures  think. 

I  dwell  a  little  on  this  matter  of  appear- 
ances because  so  few  men  are  really  think- 
ing animals.  Where  one  fellow  reads  a 
stranger's  character  in  his  face,  a  hundred 
read  it  in  his  get-up.  We  have  shown  a 
dozen  breeds  of  dukes  and  droves  of  college 
presidents  and  doctors  of  divinity  through 
the  packing-house,  and  the  workmen  never 
noticed  them  except  to  throw  livers  at  them 
when  they  got  in  their  way.  But  when  John 
L.  Sullivan  went  through  the  stock  yards 
it  just  simply  shut  down  the  plant.  The 
men  quit  the  benches  with  a  yell  and  lined 
up  to  cheer  him.  You  see,  John  looked  his 
job,  and  you  didn't  have  to  explain  to  the 
men  that  he  was  the  real  thing  in  prize- 
fighters. Of  course,  when  a  fellow  gets  to 
the  point  where  he  is  something  in  particu- 
lar, he  doesn't  have  to  care  because  he 
doesn't  look  like  anything  special ;  but  while 


A  SELF-MADE  MERCHANT'S 

a  young  fellow  isn't  anything  in  particular, 
it  is  a  mighty  valuable  asset  if  he  looks  like 
something  special. 

Just  here  I  want  to  say  that  while  it's  all 
right  for  the  other  fellow  to  be  influenced 
by  appearances,  it's  all  wrong  for  you  to 
go  on  them.  Back  up  good  looks  by  good 
character  yourself,  and  make  sure  that  the 
other  fellow  does  the  same.  A  suspicious 
man  makes  trouble  for  himself,  but  a 
cautious  one  saves  it.  Because  there  ain't 
any  rotten  apples  in  the  top  layer,  it  ain't 
always  safe  to  bet  that  the  whole  barrel  is 
sound. 

A  man  doesn't  snap  up  a  horse  just  be- 
cause he  looks  all  right.  As  a  usual  thing 
that  only  makes  him  wonder  what  really  is 
the  matter  that  the  other  fellow  wants  to 
sell.  So  he  leads  the  nag  out  into  the 
middle  of  a  ten-acre  lot,  where  the  light  will 
strike  him  good  and  strong,  and  examines 
every  hair  of  his  hide,  as  if  he  expected  to 
find  it  near-seal,  or  some  other  base  imita- 
184 


'  When  John  L.  Sullivan 
went  through  the  stock  yards, 
it  just  simply  shut  down  the 
plant." 


LETTERS  TO  HIS  SON 

tion;  and  he  squints  under  each  hoof  for 
the  grand  hailing  sign  of  distress;  and  he 
peeks  down  his  throat  for  dark  secrets.  If 
the  horse  passes  this  degree  the  buyer  drives 
him  twenty  or  thirty  miles,  expecting  him  to 
turn  out  a  roarer,  or  to  find  that  he  balks, 
or  shies,  or  goes  lame,  or  develops  some 
other  horse  nonsense.  If  after  all  that  there 
are  no  bad  symptoms,  he  offers  fifty  less 
than  the  price  asked,  on  general  principles, 
and  for  fear  he  has  missed  something. 

Take  men  and  horses,  by  and  large,  and 
they  run  pretty  much  the  same.  There's 
nothing  like  trying  a  man  in  harness  a  while 
before  you  bind  yourself  to  travel  very  far 
with  him. 

I  remember  giving  a  nice-looking,  clean- 
shaven felloAV  a  job  on  the  billing-desk,  just 
on  his  looks,  but  he  turned  out  such  a  poor 
hand  at  figures  that  I  had  to  fire  him  at  the 
end  of  a  week.  It  seemed  that  the  morning 
he  struck  me  for  the  place  he  had  pawned 
his  razor  for  fifteen  cents  in  order  to  get  a 

185 


A  SELF-MADE  MERCHANT'S 

shave.  Naturally,  if  I  had  known  that  in 
the  first  place  I  wouldn't  have  hired  him  as 
a  human  arithmetic. 

Another  time  I  had  a  collector  that  I  set 
a  heap  of  store  by.  Always  handled  himself 
just  right  when  he  talked  to  you  and  kept 
himself  looking  right  up  to  the  mark.  His 
salary  wasn't  very  big,  but  he  had  such  a 
persuasive  way  that  he  seemed  to  get  a 
dollar  and  a  half  s  worth  of  value  out  of 
every  dollar  that  he  earned.  Never  crowded 
the  fashions  and  never  gave  'em  any  slack. 
If  sashes  were  the  thing  with  summer 
shirts,  why  Charlie  had  a  sash,  you  bet,  and 
when  tight  trousers  were  the  nobby  trick  in 
pants,  Charlie  wore  his  double  reefed.  Take 
him  fore  and  aft,  Charlie  looked  all  right 
and  talked  all  right — always  careful,  always 
considerate,  always  polite. 

One  noon,  after  he  had  been  with  me  for 

a  year  or  two,  I  met  him  coming  in  from 

his  route  looking  glum;  so  I  handed  him 

fifty  dollars  as  a  little  sweetener.    I  never 

186 


LETTERS  TO  HIS  SON 

saw  a  fifty  cheer  a  man  up  like  that  one  did 
Charlie,  and  he  thanked  me  just  right — 
didn't  stutter  and  didn't  slop  over.  I  ear- 
marked Charlie  for  a  raise  and  a  better  job 
right  there. 

Just  after  that  I  got  mixed  up  with  some 
work  in  my  private  office  and  I  didn't  look 
around  again  till  on  toward  closing  time. 
Then,  right  outside  my  door  I  met  the  office 
manager,  and  he  looked  mighty  glum,  too. 

"  I  was  just  going  to  knock  on  your  door," 
said  he. 

"Well?"  I  asked. 

"  Charlie  Chasenberry  is  eight  hundred 
dollars  short  in  his  collections." 

"  Um — m,"  I  said,  without  blinking,  but 
I  had  a  gone  feeling  just  the  same. 

"  I  had  a  plain-clothes  man  here  to  arrest 
him  this  evening,  but  he  didn't  come  in." 

"  Looks  as  if  he'd  skipped,  eh?  "  I  asked. 

"  I'm  afraid  so,  but  I  don't  know  how. 
He  didn't  have  a  dollar  this  morning,  be- 
cause he  tried  to  overdraw  his  salary  ac- 

187 


A  MERCHANT'S  LETTERS 

count  and  I  wouldn't  let  him,  and  he  didn't 
collect  any  bills  to-day  because  he  had  al- 
ready collected  everything  that  was  due 
this  week  and  lost  it  bucking  the  tiger." 

I  didn't  say  anything,  but  I  suspected 
that  there  was  a  sucker  somewhere  in  the 
office.  The  next  day  I  was  sure  of  it,  for  I 
got  a  telegram  from  the  always  polite  and 
thoughtful  Charlie,  dated  at  Montreal : 

"  Many,  many  thanks,  dear  Mr.  Gra- 
ham, for  your  timely  assistance." 

Careful  as  usual,  you  see,  about  the  little 
things,  for  there  were  just  ten  words  in  the 
message.  But  that  "  Many,  many  thanks, 
dear  Mr.  Graham,"  was  the  closest  to 
slopping  over  I  had  ever  known  him  to  come. 
I  consider  the  little  lesson  that  Charlie 
gave  me  as  cheap  at  eight  hundred  and  fifty 
dollars,  and  I  pass  it  along  to  you  because 
it  may  save  you  a  thousand  or  two  on  your 
experience  account. 

Your  affectionate  father, 

JOHN  GRAHAM. 
188 


No,  14 


FROM  John  Graham, 
at  the  Union  Stock 
Yards  in  Chicago, 
to  his  son,  Pierrepont,  at 
The  Travelers'  Rest,  New 
Albany,  Indiana.  Mr. 
Pierrepont  has  taken  a  lit- 
tle flyer  in  short  ribs  on 
'Change,  and  has  acci- 
dentally come  into  the 
line  of  his  father's  vision. 


XIV 

CHICAGO,  July  15,  189 — 
Dear  Pierrepont:  I  met  young  Horshey, 
of  Horshey  &  Horter,  the  grain  and  pro- 
vision brokers,  at  luncheon  yesterday,  and 
while  we  were  talking  over  the  light  run  of 
hogs  your  name  came  up  somehow,  and  he 
congratulated  me  on  having  such  a  smart 
son.  Like  an  old  fool,  I  allowed  that  you 
were  bright  enough  to  come  in  out  of  the 
rain  if  somebody  called  you,  though  I  ought 
to  have  known  better,  for  it  seems  as  if  I 
never  start  in  to  brag  about  your  being 
sound  and  sweet  that  I  don't  have  to  wind 
up  by  allowing  a  rebate  for  skippers. 

Horshey  was  so  blamed  anxious  to  show 
that  you  were  over-weight — he  wants  to 
handle  some  of  my  business  on  ' Change — 
that  he  managed  to  prove  you  a  light-weight. 
Told  me  you  had  ordered  him  to  sell  a  hun- 
dred thousand  ribs  short  last  week,  and  that 
he  had  just  bought  them  in  on  a  wire  from 
191 


A  SELF-MADE  MERCHANT'S 

you  at  a  profit  of  four  hundred  and  sixty- 
odd  dollars.  I  was  mighty  hot,  you  bet,  to 
know  that  you  had  been  speculating,  but 
I  had  to  swallow  and  allow  that  you  were 
a  pretty  sharp  boy.  I  told  Horshey  to  close 
out  the  account  and  send  ine  a  check  for 
your  profits  and  I  would  forward  it,  as  I 
wanted  to  give  you  a  tip  on  the  market  be- 
fore you  did  any  more  trading. 

I  inclose  the  check  herewith.  Please  in- 
dorse it  over  to  the  treasurer  of  The  Home 
for  Half  Orphans  and  return  at  once.  I  will 
see  that  he  gets  it  with  your  compliments. 

Now,  I  want  to  give  you  that  tip  on  the 
market.  There  are  several  reasons  why  it 
isn't  safe  for  you  to  trade  on  'Change  just 
now,  but  the  particular  one  is  that  Graham 
&  Co.  will  fire  you  if  you  do.  Trading  on 
margin  is  a  good  deal  like  paddling  around 
the  edge  of  the  old  swimming  hole — it  seems 
safe  and  easy  at  first,  but  before  a  fellow 
knows  it  he  has  stepped  off  the  edge  into 
deep  water.  The  wheat  pit  is  only  thirty 
192 


LETTERS  TO  HIS  SON 

feet  across,  but  it  reaches  clear  down  to 
Hell.  And  trading  on  margin  means  trad- 
ing on  the  ragged  edge  of  nothing.  When 
a  man  buys,  he's  buying  something  that  the 
other  fellow  hasn't  got.  When  a  man  sells, 
he's  selling  something  that  he  hasn't  got. 
And  it's  been  my  experience  that  the  net 
profit  on  nothing  is  nit.  When  a  speculator 
wins  he  don't  stop  till  he  loses,  and  when 
he  loses  he  can't  stop  till  he  wins. 

You  have  been  in  the  packing  business 
long  enough  now  to  know  that  it  takes  a  bull 
only  thirty  seconds  to  lose  his  hide;  and  if 
you'll  believe  me  when  I  tell  you  that  they 
can  skin  a  bear  just  as  quick  on  'Change, 
you  won't  have  a  Board  of  Trade  Indian 
using  your  pelt  for  a  rug  during  the  long 
winter  months. 

Because  you  are  the  son  of  a  pork  packer 
you  may  think  that  you  know  a  little  more 
than  the  next  fellow  about  paper  pork. 
There's  nothing  in  it.  The  poorest  men  on 
earth  are  the  relations  of  millionaires. 


A  SELF-MADE  MERCHANT'S 

When  I  sell  futures  on  'Change,  they're 
against  hogs  that  are  traveling  into  dry  salt 
at  the  rate  of  one  a  second,  and  if  the  market 
goes  up  on  me  I've  got  the  solid  meat  to 
deliver.  But,  if  you  lose,  the  only  part  of 
the  hog  which  you  can  deliver  is  the  squeal. 

I  wouldn't  bear  down  so  hard  on  this 
matter  if  money  was  the  only  thing  that  a 
fellow  could  lose  on  'Change.  But  if  a  clerk 
sells  pork,  and  the  market  goes  down,  he's 
mighty  apt  to  get  a  lot  of  ideas  with  holes 
in  them  and  bad  habits  as  the  small  change 
of  his  profits.  And  if  the  market  goes  up, 
he's  likely  to  go  short  his  self-respect  to 
win  back  his  money. 

Most  men  think  that  they  can  figure  up 
all  their  assets  in  dollars  and  cents,  but  a 
merchant  may  owe  a  hundred  thousand  dol- 
lars and  be  solvent.  A  man's  got  to  lose 
more  than  money  to  be  broke.  When  a 
fellow's  got  a  straight  backbone  and  a  clear 
eye  his  creditors  don't  have  to  lie  awake 
nights  worrying  over  his  liabilities.  You 
194 


LETTERS  TO  HIS  SON 

can  hide  your  meanness  from  your  brain  and 
your  tongue,  but  the  eye  and  the  backbone 
won't  keep  secrets.  When  the  tongue  lies, 
the  eyes  tell  the  truth. 

I  know  you'll  think  that  the  old  man  is 
bucking  and  kicking  up  a  lot  of  dust  over 
a  harmless  little  flyer.  But  I've  kept  a  heap 
smarter  boys  than  you  out  of  Joliet  when 
they  found  it  easy  to  feed  the  Board  of 
Trade  hog  out  of  my  cash  drawer,  after  it 
had  sucked  up  their  savings  in  a  couple  of 
laps. 

You  must  learn  not  to  overwork  a  dollar 
any  more  than  you  would  a  horse.  Three 
per  cent,  is  a  small  load  for  it  to  draw;  six, 
a  safe  one ;  when  it  pulls  in  ten  for  you  it's 
likely  working  out  West  and  you've  got  to 
watch  to  see  that  it  doesn't  buck;  when  it 
makes  twenty  you  own  a  blame  good  critter 
or  a  mighty  foolish  one,  and  you  want  to 
make  dead  sure  which ;  but  if  it  draws  a  hun- 
dred it's  playing  the  races  or  something 
just  as  hard  on  horses  and  dollars,  and  the 

195 


A  SELF-MADE  MERCHANT'S 

first  thing  you  know  you  won't  have  even  a 
carcass  to  haul  to  the  glue  factory. 

I  dwell  a  little  on  this  matter  of  specula- 
tion because  you've  got  to  live  next  door  to 
the  Board  of  Trade  all  your  life,  and  it's  a 
safe  thing  to  know  something  about  a  neigh- 
bor's dogs  before  you  try  to  pat  them.  Sure 
Things,  Straight  Tips  and  Dead  Cinches 
will  come  running  out  to  meet  you,  wagging 
their  tails  and  looking  as  innocent  as  if  they 
hadn't  just  killed  a  lamb,  but  they'll  bite. 
The  only  safe  road  to  follow  in  speculation 
leads  straight  away  from  the  Board  of 
Trade  on  the  dead  run. 

Speaking  of  sure  things  naturally  calls 
to  mind  the  case  of  my  old  friend  Deacon 
Wiggleford,  whom  I  used  to  know  back 
in  Missouri  years  ago.  The  Deacon  was  a 
powerful  pious  man,  and  he  was  good  ac- 
cording to  his  lights,  but  he  didn't  use  a 
very  superior  article  of  kerosene  to  keep 
them  burning. 

Used  to  take  up  half  the  time  in  prayer- 
196 


LETTERS  TO  HIS  SON 

meeting  talking  about  how  we  were  all  weak 
vessels  and  stewards.  But  he  was  so  blamed 
busy  exhorting  others  to  give  out  of  the  full- 
ness with  which  the  Lord  had  blessed  them 
that  he  sort  of  forgot  that  the  Lord  had 
blessed  him  about  fifty  thousand  dollars' 
worth,  and  put  it  all  in  mighty  safe  prop- 
erty, too,  you  bet. 

The  Deacon  had  a  brother  in  Chicago 
whom  he  used  to  call  a  sore  trial.  Brother 
Bill  was  a  broker  on  the  Board  of  Trade, 
and,  according  to  the  Deacon,  he  was  not 
only  engaged  in  a  mighty  sinful  occupation, 
but  he  was  a  mighty  poor  steward  of  his  sin- 
ful gains.  Smoked  two-bit  cigars  and  wore 
a  plug  hat.  Drank  a  little  and  cussed  a 
little  and  went  to  the  Episcopal  Church, 
though  he  had  been  raised  a  Methodist.  Al- 
together it  looked  as  if  Bill  was  a  pretty 
hard  nut. 

Well,  one  fall  the  Deacon  decided  to  go  to 
Chicago  himself  to  buy  his  winter  goods,  and 
naturally  he  hiked  out  to  Brother  Bill's  to 
197 


A  SELF-MADE  MERCHANT'S 

stay,  which  was  considerable  cheaper  for 
him  than  the  Palmer  House,  though,  as  he 
told  us  when  he  got  back,  it  made  him  sick 
to  see  the  waste. 

The  Deacon  had  his  mouth  all  fixed  to  tell 
Brother  Bill  that,  in  his  opinion,  he  wasn't 
much  better  than  a  faro  dealer,  for  he  used 
to  brag  that  he  never  let  anything  turn 
him  from  his  duty,  which  meant  his 
meddling  in  other  people's  business.  I  want 
to  say  right  here  that  with  most  men  duty 
means  something  unpleasant  which  the 
other  fellow  ought  to  do.  As  a  matter  of 
fact,  a  man's  first  duty  is  to  mind  his  own 
business.  It's  been  my  experience  that  it 
takes  about  all  the  thought  and  work  which 
one  man  can  give  to  run  one  man  right,  and 
if  a  fellow's  putting  in  five  or  six  hours  a 
day  on  his  neighbor's  character,  he's  mighty 
apt  to  scamp  the  building  of  his  own. 

Well,  when  Brother  Bill  got  home  from 
business  that  first  night,  the  Deacon  ex- 
plained that  every  time  he  lit  a  two-bit  cigar 
108 


LETTERS  TO  HIS  SON 

he  was  depriving  a  Zulu  of  twenty-five  help- 
ful little  tracts  which  might  have  made  a 
better  man  of  him;  that  fast  horses  were  a 
snare  and  plug  hats  a  wile  of  the  Enemy; 
that  the  Board  of  Trade  was  the  Temple 
of  Belial  and  the  brokers  on  it  his  sons  and 
servants. 

Brother  Bill  listened  mighty  patiently  to 
him,  and  when  the  Deacon  had  pumped  out 
all  the  Scripture  that  was  in  him,  and  was 
beginning  to  suck  air,  he  sort  of  slunk  into 
the  conversation  like  a  setter  pup  that's 
been  caught  with  the  feathers  on  its  chops. 

"  Brother  Zeke,"  says  he,  "  I  shall  cer- 
tainly let  your  words  soak  in.  I  want  to  be 
a  number  two  red,  hard,  sound  and  clean 
sort  of  a  man,  and  grade  contract  on  de- 
livery day.  Perhaps,  as  you  say,  the  rust 
has  got  into  me  and  the  Inspector  won't 
pass  me,  and  if  I  can  see  it  that  way  I'll 
settle  my  trades  and  get  out  of  the  market 
for  good." 

The  Deacon  knew  that  Brother  Bill  had 
199 


A  SELF-MADE  MERCHANT'S 

scraped  together  considerable  property,  and, 
as  he  was  a  bachelor,  it  would  come  to  him 
in  case  the  broker  was  removed  by  any 
sudden  dispensation.  What  he  really  feared 
was  that  this  money  might  be  fooled  away  in 
high  living  and  speculation.  And  so  he  had 
banged  away  into  the  middle  of  the  flock, 
hoping  to  bring  down  those  two  birds.  Now 
that  it  began  to  look  as  if  he  might  kill 
off  the  whole  bunch  he  started  in  to  hedge. 

"Is  it  safe,  William?"  says  he. 

"As  Sunday-school,"  says  Bill,  "if  you 
do  a  strictly  brokerage  business  and  don't 
speculate." 

"  I  trust,  William,  that  you  recognize  the 
responsibilities  of  your  stewardship?  " 

Bill  fetched  a  groan.  "  Zeke,"  says  he, 
"you  cornered  me  there,  and  I  'spose  I 
might  as  well  walk  up  to  the  Captain's  office 
and  settle.  I  hadn't  bought  or  sold  a  bushel 
on  my  own  account  in  a  year  till  last  week, 
when  I  got  your  letter  saying  that  you  were 
coming.  Then  I  saw  what  looked  like  a 
200 


"  /  started  in  to  curl  up 
that  young  fellow  to  a  crisp." 


LETTERS  TO  HIS  SON 

safe  chance  to  scalp  the  market  for  a  couple 
of  cents  a  bushel,  and  I  bought  10,000  Sep- 
tember, intending  to  turn  over  the  profits 
to  you  as  a  little  present,  so  that  you  could 
see  the  town  and  have  a  good  time  without 
it's  costing  you  anything." 

The  Deacon  judged  from  Bill's  expression 
that  he  had  got  nipped  and  was  going  to 
try  to  unload  the  loss  on  him,  so  he  changed 
his  face  to  the  one  which  he  used  when  at- 
tending the  funeral  of  any  one  who  hadn't 
been  a  professor,  and  came  back  quick  and 
hard : 

"  Fm  surprised,  William,  that  you  should 
think  I  would  accept  money  made  in  gam- 
bling. Let  this  be  a  lesson  to  you.  How 
much  did  you  lose?  " 

"  That's  the  worst  of  it — I  didn't  lose;  I 
made  two  hundred  dollars,"  and  Bill  hove 
another  sigh. 

"  Made  two  hundred  dollars !  "  echoed  the 
Deacon,  and  he  changed  his  face  again  for 
the  one  which  he  used  when  he  found  a  lead 

201 


A  SELF-MADE  MERCHANT'S 

quarter  in  his  till  and  couldn't  remember 
who  had  passed  it  on  him. 

"  Yes,"  Bill  went  on,  "  and  I'm  ashamed 
of  it,  for  you've  made  me  see  things  in  a 
new  light.  Of  course,  after  what  you've 
said,  I  know  it  would  be  an  insult  to  offer 
you  the  money.  And  I  feel  now  that  it 
wouldn't  be  right  to  keep  it  myself.  I  must 
sleep  on  it  and  try  to  find  the  straight  thing 
to  do." 

I  guess  it  really  didn't  interfere  with 
Bill's  sleep,  but  the  Deacon  sat  up  with 
the  corpse  of  that  two  hundred  dollars,  you 
bet.  In  the  morning  at  breakfast  he  asked 
Brother  Bill  to  explain  all  about  this  specu- 
lating business,  what  made  the  market  go 
up  and  down,  and  whether  real  corn  or 
wheat  or  pork  figured  in  any  stage  of  a  deal. 
Bill  looked  sort  of  sad  and  dreamy-eyed,  as 
if  his  conscience  hadn't  digested  that  two 
hundred  yet,  but  he  was  mighty  obliging 
about  explaining  everything  to  Zeke.  He 

2O2 


LETTERS  TO  HIS  SON 

had  changed  his  face  for  the  one  which  he 
wore  when  he  sold  an  easy  customer  ground 
peas  and  chicory  for  O.  G.  Java,  and  every 
now  and  then  he  gulped  as  if  he  was  going 
to  start  a  hymn.  When  Bill  told  him  how 
good  and  bad  weather  sent  the  market  up 
and  down,  he  nodded  and  said  that  that  part 
of  it  was  all  right,  because  the  weather  was 
of  the  Lord. 

"  Not  on  the  Board  of  Trade  it  isn't,"  Bill 
answered  back ;  "  at  least,  not  to  any  marked 
extent;  it's  from  the  weather  man  or  some 
liar  in  the  corn  belt,  and,  as  the  weather 
man  usually  guesses  wrong,  I  reckon  there 
isn't  any  special  inspiration  about  it.  The 
game  is  to  guess  what's  going  to  happen,  not 
what  has  happened,  and  by  the  time  the  real 
weather  comes  along  everybody  has  guessed 
wrong  and  knocked  the  market  off  a  cent 
or  two." 

That  made  the  Deacon's  chin  whiskers 
droop  a  little,  but  he  began  to  ask  questions 
203 


A  SELF-MADE  MERCHANTS 

again,  and  by  and  by  he  discovered  that 
away  behind— about  a  hundred  miles  be- 
hind, but  that  was  close  enough  for  the 
Deacon — a  deal  in  futures  there  were  real 
wheat  and  pork.  Said  then  that  he'd  been 
misinformed  and  misled;  that  speculation 
was  a  legitimate  business,  involving  skill 
and  sagacity;  that  his  last  scruple  was  re- 
moved, and  that  he  would  accept  the  two 
hundred. 

Bill  brightened  right  up  at  that  and 
thanked  him  for  putting  it  so  clear  and  re- 
moving the  doubts  that  had  been  worrying 
him.  Said  that  he  could  speculate  with  a 
clear  conscience  after  listening  to  the  Dea- 
con's able  exposition  of  the  subject.  Was 
only  sorry  he  hadn't  seen  him  to  talk  it  over 
before  breakfast,  as  the  two  hundred  had 
been  lying  so  heavy  on  his  mind  all  night 
that  he'd  got  up  early  and  mailed  a  check 
for  it  to  the  Deacon's  pastor  and  told  him 
to  spend  it  on  his  poor. 
204 


LETTERS  TO  HIS  SON 

Zeke  took  the  evening  train  home  in  order 
to  pry  that  check  out  of  the  elder,  but  old 
Doc.  Hoover  was  a  pretty  quick  stepper 
himself  and  he'd  blown  the  whole  two  hun- 
dred as  soon  as  he  got  it,  buying  winter  coal 
for  poor  people. 

I  simply  mention  the  Deacon  in  passing 
as  an  example  of  the  fact  that  it's  easy  for  a 
man  who  thinks  he's  all  right  to  go  all 
wrong  when  he  sees  a  couple  of  hundred 
dollars  lying  around  loose  a  little  to  one 
side  of  the  straight  and  narrow  path;  and 
that  when  he  reaches  down  to  pick  up  the 
money  there's  usually  a  string  tied  to  it  and 
a  small  boy  in  the  bushes  to  give  it  a  yank. 
Easy-come  money  never  draws  interest; 
easy-borrowed  dollars  pay  usury. 

Of  course,  the  Board  of  Trade  and  every 
other  commercial  exchange  have  their  legiti- 
mate uses,  but  all  you  need  to  know  just 
now  is  that  speculation  by  a  fellow  who 
never  owns  more  pork  at  a  time  than  he  sees 
205 


A  MERCHANT'S  LETTERS 

on  his  breakfast  plate  isn't  one  of  them. 
When  you  become  a  packer  you  may  go  on 
'Change  as  a  trader;  until  then  you  can  go 
there  only  as  a  sucker. 

Your  affectionate  father, 

JOHN  GRAHAM. 


206 


No,  15 


FROM  John  Graham, 
at  the  Union  Stock 
Yards  in  Chicago, 
to  his  son,  Pierrepont,  at 
The  Scrub  Oaks,  Spring 
Lake,  Michigan.  Mr. 
Pierrepont  has  been  pro- 
moted again,  and  the  old 
man  sends  him  a  little 
advice  with  his  appoint- 
ment. 


XV 

CHICAGO,  September  1, 189 — 
Dear  Pierrepont:  I  judge  from  yours  of 
the  twenty-ninth  that  you  must  have  the 
black  bass  in  those  parts  pretty  well  ter- 
rorized. I  never  could  quite  figure  it  out, 
but  there  seems  to  be  something  about  a  fish 
that  makes  even  a  cold-water  deacon  see 
double.  I  reckon  it  must  be  that  while  Eve 
was  learning  the  first  principles  of  dress- 
making from  the  snake,  Adam  was  off  bass 
fishing  and  keeping  his  end  up  by  learning 
how  to  lie. 

Don't  overstock  yourself  with  those  four- 
pound  fish  yarns,  though,  because  the  boys 
have  been  bringing  them  back  from  their 
vacations  till  we've  got  enough  to  last  us  for 
a  year  of  Fridays.  And  if  you're  sending 
them  to  keep  in  practice,  you  might  as  well 
quit,  because  we've  decided  to  take  you  off 
the  road  when  you  come  back,  and  make 
you  assistant  manager  of  the  lard  depart- 
209 


A  SELF-MADE  MERCHANTS 

ment.  The  salary  will  be  fifty  dollars  a 
week,  and  the  duties  of  the  position  to  do 
your  work  so  well  that  the  manager  can't 
run  the  department  without  you,  and  that 
you  can  run  the  department  without  the 
manager. 

To  do  this  you  will  have  to  know  lard ;  to 
know  yourself;  and  to  know  those  under 
you.  To  some  fellows  lard  is  just  hog  fat, 
and  not  always  that,  if  they  would  rather 
make  a  dollar  to-day  than  five  to-morrow. 
But  it  was  a  good  deal  more  to  Jack  Sum- 
mers, who  held  your  new  job  until  we  had  to 
promote  him  to  canned  goods. 

Jack  knew  lard  from  the  hog  to  the  frying 
pan ;  was  up  on  lard  in  history  and  religion ; 
originated  what  he  called  the  "  Ham  and  " 
theory,  proving  that  Moses'  injunction 
against  pork  must  have  been  dissolved  by 
the  Circuit  Court,  because  Noah  included 
a  couple  of  shoats  in  his  cargo,  and  called 
one  of  his  sons  Ham,  out  of  gratitude,  prob- 
ably, after  tasting  a  slice  broiled  for  the  first 

210 


LETTERS  TO  HIS  SON 

time ;  argued  that  all  the  great  nations  lived 
on  fried  food,  and  that  America  was  the 
greatest  of  them  all,  owing  to  the  energy- 
producing  qualities  of  pie,  liberally  short- 
ened with  lard. 

It  almost  broke  Jack's  heart  when  we 
decided  to  manufacture  our  new  cottonseed 
oil  product,  Seedoiline.  But  on  reflection 
he  saw  that  it  just  gave  him  an  extra  hold 
on  the  heathen  that  he  couldn't  convert  to 
lard,  and  he  started  right  out  for  the  Hebrew 
and  vegetarian  vote.  Jack  had  enthusiasm, 
and  enthusiasm  is  the  best  shortening  for 
any  job;  it  makes  heavy  work  light. 

A  good  many  young  fellows  envy  their 
boss  because  they  think  he  makes  the  rules 
and  can  do  as  he  pleases.  As  a  matter  of 
fact,  he's  the  only  man  in  the  shop  who  can't. 
He's  like  the  fellow  on  the  tight-rope — 
there's  plenty  of  scenery  under  him  and  lots 
of  room  around  him,  but  he's  got  to  keep  his 
feet  on  the  wire  all  the  time  and  travel 
straight  ahead. 

211 


A  SELF-MADE  MERCHANTS 

A  clerk  has  just  one  boss  to  answer  to — 
the  manager.  But  the  manager  has  just 
as  many  bosses  as  he  has  clerks  under  him. 
He  can  make  rules,  but  he's  the  only  man 
who  can't  afford  to  break  them  now  and 
then.  A  fellow  is  a  boss  simply  because  he's 
a  better  man  than  those  under  him,  and 
there's  a  heap  of  responsibility  in  being 
better  than  the  next  fellow. 

No  man  can  ask  more  than  he  gives.  A 
fellow  who  can't  take  orders  can't  give  them. 
If  his  rules  are  too  hard  for  him  to  mind, 
you  can  bet  they  are  too  hard  for  the  clerks 
who  don't  get  half  so  much  for  minding 
them  as  he  does.  There's  no  alarm  clock 
for  the  sleepy  man  like  an  early  rising  man- 
ager; and  there's  nothing  breeds  work  in  an 
office  like  a  busy  boss. 

Of  course,  setting  a  good  example  is  just 
a  small  part  of  a  manager's  duties.  It's  not 
enough  to  settle  yourself  firm  on  the  box 
seat — you  must  have  every  man  under  you 
hitched  up  right  and  well  in  hand.  You 
212 


LETTERS  TO  HIS  SON 

can't  work  individuals  by  general  rules. 
Every  man  is  a  special  case  and  needs  a 
special  pill. 

When  you  fix  up  a  snug  little  nest  for  a 
Plymouth  Rock  hen  and  encourage  her  with 
a  nice  porcelain  egg,  it  doesn't  always  follow 
that  she  has  reached  the  fricassee  age  be- 
cause she  doesn't  lay  right  off.  Sometimes 
she  will  respond  to  a  little  red  pepper  in 
her  food. 

I  don't  mean  by  this  that  you  ever  want 
to  drive  your  men,  because  the  lash  always 
leaves  its  worst  soreness  under  the  skin. 
A  hundred  men  will  forgive  a  blow  in  the 
face  where  one  will  a  blow  to  his  self-esteem. 
Tell  a  man  the  truth  about  himself  and 
shame  the  devil  if  you  want  to,  but  you  won't 
shame  the  man  you're  trying  to  reach,  be- 
cause he  won't  believe  you.  But  if  you  can 
start  him  on  the  road  that  will  lead  him  to 
the  truth  he's  mighty  apt  to  try  to  reform 
himself  before  any  one  else  finds  him  out. 

Consider  carefully  before  you  say  a  hard 
213 


A  SELF-MADE  MERCHANT'S 

word  to  a  man,  but  never  let  a  chance  to  say 
a  good  one  go  by.  Praise  judiciously  be- 
stowed is  money  invested. 

Never  learn  anything  about  your  men 
except  from  themselves.  A  good  manager 
needs  no  detectives,  and  the  fellow  who  can't 
read  human  nature  can't  manage  it.  The 
phonograph  records  of  a  fellow's  character 
are  lined  in  his  face,  and  a  man's  days  tell 
the  secrets  of  his  nights. 

Be  slow  to  hire  and  quick  to  fire.  The 
time  to  discover  incompatibility  of  temper 
and  curl-papers  is  before  the  marriage  cere- 
mony. But  when  you  find  that  you've  hired 
the  wrong  man,  you  can't  get  rid  of  him  too 
quick.  Pay  him  an  extra  month,  but  don't 
let  him  stay  another  day.  A  discharged 
clerk  in  the  office  is  like  a  splinter  in  the 
thumb — a  centre  of  soreness.  There  are  no 
exceptions  to  this  rule,  because  there  are  no 
exceptions  to  human  nature. 

Never  threaten,  because  a  threat  is  a 
promise  to  pay  that  it  isn't  always  con- 
214 


LETTERS  TO  HIS  SON 

venient  to  meet,  but  if  you  don't  make  it 
good  it  hurts  your  credit.  Save  a  threat 
till  you're  ready  to  act,  and  then  you  won't 
need  it.  In  all  your  dealings,  remember  that 
to-day  is  your  opportunity ;  to-morrow  some 
other  fellow's. 

Keep  close  to  your  men.  When  a  fellow's 
sitting  on  top  of  a  mountain  he's  in  a  mighty 
dignified  and  exalted  position,  but  if  he's 
gazing  at  the  clouds,  he's  missing  a  heap 
of  interesting  and  important  doings  down  in 
the  valley.  Never  lose  your  dignity,  of 
course,  but  tie  it  up  in  all  the  red  tape  you 
can  find  around  the  office,  and  tuck  it  away 
in  the  safe.  It's  easy  for  a  boss  to  awe  his 
clerks,  but  a  man  who  is  feared  to  his  face 
is  hated  behind  his  back.  A  competent 
boss  can  move  among  his  men  without  hav- 
ing to  draw  an  imaginary  line  between 
them,  because  they  will  see  the  real  one  if  it 
exists. 

Besides  keeping  in  touch  witE  your  office 
men,  you  want  to  feel  your  salesmen  all  the 

215 


A  SELF-MADE  MERCHANT'S 

time.  Send  each  of  them  a  letter  every  day 
so  that  they  won't  forget  that  we  are  making 
goods  for  which  we  need  orders;  and  insist 
on  their  sending  you  a  line  every  day, 
whether  they  have  anything  to  say  or  not. 
When  a  fellow  has  to  write  in  six  times  a 
week  to  the  house,  he  uses  up  his  explana- 
tions mighty  fast,  and  he's  pretty  apt  to 
hustle  for  business  to  make  his  seventh 
letter  interesting. 

Right  here  I  want  to  repeat  that  in  keep- 
ing track  of  others  and  their  faults  it's  very, 
very  important  that  you  shouldn't  lose  sight 
of  your  own.  Authority  swells  up  some  fel- 
lows so  that  they  can't  see  their  corns;  but 
a  wise  man  tries  to  cure  his  own  while  re- 
membering not  to  tread  on  his  neighbors'. 

In  this  connection,  the  story  of  Lemuel 
Hostitter,  who  kept  the  corner  grocery  in 
my  old  town,  naturally  comes  to  mind. 
Lem  was  probably  the  meanest  white  man 
in  the  State  of  Missouri,  and  it  wasn't  any 
walk-over  to  hold  the  belt  in  those  days. 
216 


many  salesmen  have  an 
idea  that  buyers  are  only  interested 
in  funny  stories" 


LETTERS  TO  HIS  SON 

Most  grocers  were  satisfied  to  adulterate 
their  coffee  with  ground  peas,  but  Lem  was 
so  blamed  mean  that  he  adulterated  the 
peas  first,  Bought  skin-bruised  hams  and 
claimed  that  the  bruise  was  his  private  and 
particular  brand,  stamped  in  the  skin,  show- 
ing that  they  were  a  fancy  article,  packed 
expressly  for  his  fancy  family  trade.  Ran 
a  soda-water  fountain  in  the  front  of  his 
store  with  home-made  syrups  that  ate  the 
lining  out  of  the  children's  stomachs,  and  a 
blind  tiger  in  the  back  room  with  moonshine 
whiskey  that  pickled  their  daddies'  insides. 
Take  it  by  and  large,  Lem's  character 
smelled  about  as  various  as  his  store,  and 
that  wasn't  perfumed  with  lily-of-the-valley, 
you  bet. 

One  time  and  another  most  men  dropped 
into  Lem's  store  of  an  evening,  because  there 
wasn't  any  other  place  to  go  and  swap  lies 
about  the  crops  and  any  of  the  neighbors 
who  didn't  happen  to  be  there.  As  Lem  was 
always  around,  in  the  end  he  was  the  only 
217 


A  SELF-MADE  MERCHANT'S 

man  in  town  whose  meanness  hadn't  been 
talked  over  in  that  grocery.  Naturally,  he 
began  to  think  that  he  was  the  only  decent 
white  man  in  the  county.  Got  to  shaking 
his  head  and  reckoning  that  the  town  was 
plum  rotten.  Said  that  such  goings  on 
would  make  a  pessimist  of  a  goat.  Wanted 
to  know  if  public  opinion  couldn't  be 
aroused  so  that  decency  would  have  a  show 
in  the  village. 

Most  men  get  information  when  they  ask 
for  it,  and  in  the  end  Lem  fetched  public 
opinion  all  right,  One  night  the  local  chap- 
ter of  the  W.  C.  T.  U.  borrowed  all  the  loose 
hatchets  in  town  and  made  a  good,  clean, 
workmanlike  job  of  the  back  part  of  his 
store,  though  his  whiskey  was  so  mean  that 
even  the  ground  couldn't  soak  it  up.  The 
noise  brought  out  the  men,  and  they  sort  of 
caught  the  spirit  of  the  happy  occasion. 
When  they  were  through,  Lem's  stock  and 
fixtures  looked  mighty  sick,  and  they  had 
Lem  on  a  rail  headed  for  the  county  line. 

218 


LETTERS  TO  HIS  SON 

I  don't  know  when  I've  seen  a  more  sur- 
prised man  than  Lem.  He  couldn't  cuss 
even.  But  as  he  never  came  back,  to  ask  for 
any  explanation,  I  reckon  he  figured  it  out 
that  they  wanted  to  get  rid  of  him  because 
he  was  too  good  for  the  town. 

I  simply  mention  Lem  in  passing  as  an 
example  of  the  fact  that  when  you're  through 
sizing  up  the  other  fellow,  it's  a  good  thing 
to  step  back  from  yourself  and  see  how  you 
look.  Then  add  fifty  per  cent,  to  your  esti- 
mate of  your  neighbor  for  virtues  that  you 
can't  see,  and  deduct  fifty  per  cent,  from 
yourself  for  faults  that  you've  missed  in 
your  inventory,  and  you'll  have  a  pretty  ac- 
curate result. 

Your  affectionate  father, 

JOHN  GRAHAM. 


219 


No- 16 


FROM  John  Graham, 
at  the  Schweitzer- 
kasenhof,  Karlsbad, 
Austria,  to  his  son,  Pierre- 
pont,  at  the  Union  Stock 
Yards,  Chicago.  Mr.  Pier- 
repont  has  shown  mild 
symptoms  of  an  attack  of 
society  fever,  and  his 
father  is  administering 
some  simple  remedies. 


XVI 

KARLSBAD,  October  6, 189 — 
Dear  Pierrepont:  If  you  happen  to  run 
across  Doc  Titherington  you'd  better  tell 
him  to  go  into  training,  because  I  expect  to 
be  strong  enough  to  lick  him  by  the  time  I 
get  back.  Between  that  ten-day  boat  which 
he  recommended  and  these  Dutch  doctors, 
Fm  almost  well  and  about  broke.  You 
don't  really  have  to  take  the  baths  here  to 
get  rid  of  your  rheumatism — their  bills 
scare  it  out  of  a  fellow. 

They  tell  me  we  had  a  pretty  quiet  trip 
across,  and  I'm  not  saying  that  we  didn't, 
because  for  the  first  three  days  I  was  so 
busy  holding  myself  in  my  berth  that  I 
couldn't  get  a  chance  to  look  out  the  port- 
hole to  see  for  myself.  I  reckon  there  isn't 
anything  alive  that  can  beat  me  at  being 
seasick,  unless  it's  a  camel,  and  he's  got 
three  stomachs. 

When  I  did  get  around  I  was  a  good  deal 
223 


A  SELF-MADE  MERCHANT'S 

of  a  maverick — for  all  the  old  fellows  were 
playing  poker  in  the  smoking-room  and  all 
the  young  ones  were  lallygagging  under  the 
boats — until  I  found  that  we  were  carrying 
a  couple  of  hundred  steers  between  decks. 
They  looked  mighty  homesick,  you  bet,  and 
I  reckon  they  sort  of  sized  me  up  as  being  a 
long  ways  from  Chicago,  for  we  cottoned  to 
each  other  right  from  the  start.  Take  ?em 
as  they  ran,  they  were  a  mighty  likely  bunch 
of  steers,  and  I  got  a  heap  of  solid  comfort 
out  of  them.  There  must  have  been  good 
money  in  them,  too,  for  they  reached  Eng- 
land in  prime  condition. 

I  wish  you  would  tell  our  people  at  the 
Beef  House  to  look  into  this  export  cattle 
business,  and  have  all  the  facts  and  figures 
ready  for  me  when  I  get  back.  There  seems 
to  be  a  good  margin  in  it,  and  with  our  Eng- 
lish house  we  are  fixed  up  to  handle  it  all 
right  at  this  end.  It  makes  me  mighty  sick 
to  think  that  we've  been  sitting  back  on  our 
hindlegs  and  letting  the  other  fellow  run 
224 


LETTERS  TO  HIS  SON 

away  with  this  trade.  We  are  packers,  I 
know,  but  that's  no  reason  why  we  can't  be 
shippers,  too.  I  want  to  milk  the  critter 
coming  and  going,  twice  a  day,  and  milk  her 
dry.  Unless  you  do  the  whole  thing  you 
can't  do  anything  in  business  as  it  runs  to- 
day. There's  still  plenty  of  room  at  the  top, 
but  there  isn't  much  anywheres  else. 

There  may  be  reasons  why  we  haven't 
been  able  to  tackle  this  exporting  of  live 
cattle,  but  you  can  tell  our  people  there  that 
they  have  got  to  be  mighty  good  reasons  to 
wipe  out  the  profit  I  see  in  it.  Of  course,  I 
may  have  missed  them,  for  I've  only  looked 
into  the  business  a  little  by  way  of  recrea- 
tion, but  it  won't  do  to  say  that  it's  not  in 
our  line,  because  anything  which  carries  a 
profit  on  four  legs  is  in  our  line. 

I  dwell  a  little  on  the  matter  because, 
while  this  special  case  is  out  of  your  depart- 
ment, the  general  principle  is  in  it.  The 
way  to  think  of  a  thing  in  business  is  to 
think  of  it  first,  and  the  way  to  get  a 
225 


A  SELF-MADE  MERCHANTS 

share  of  the  trade  is  to  go  for  all  of  it.  Half 
the  battle's  in  being  on  the  hilltop  first ;  and 
the  other  half's  in  staying  there.  In  speak- 
ing of  these  matters,  and  in  writing  you 
about  your  new  job,  I've  run  a  little  ahead 
of  your  present  position,  because  I'm  count- 
ing on  you  to  catch  up  with  me.  But  you 
want  to  get  it  clearly  in  mind  that  I'm  writ- 
ing to  you  not  as  the  head  of  the  house,  but 
as  the  head  of  the  family,  and  that  I  don't 
propose  to  mix  the  two  things. 

Even  as  assistant  manager  of  the  lard 
department,  you  don't  occupy  a  very  im» 
portant  position  with  us  yet.  But  the  great 
trouble  with  some  fellows  is  that  a  little 
success  goes  to  their  heads.  Instead  of  hid- 
ing their  authority  behind  their  backs  and 
trying  to  get  close  to  their  men,  they  use  it 
as  a  club  to  keep  them  off.  And  a  boss  with 
a  case  of  big-head  will  fill  an  office  full  of 
sore  heads. 

I  don't  know  any  one  who  has  better  op- 
portunities for  making  himself  unpopular 
226 


LETTERS  TO  HIS  SON 

than  an  assistant,  for  the  clerks  are  apt  to 
cuss  him  for  all  the  manager's  meanness, 
and  the  manager  is  likely  to  find  fault  with 
him  for  all  the  clerks'  cussedness.  But  if  he 
explains  his  orders  to  the  clerks  he  loses  his 
authority,  and  if  he  excuses  himself  to  the 
manager  he  loses  his  usefulness.  A  man- 
ager needs  an  assistant  to  take  trouble  from 
him,  not  to  bring  it  to  him. 

The  one  important  thing  for  you  to  re- 
member all  the  time  is  not  to  forget.  It's 
easier  for  a  boss  to  do  a  thing  himself  than 
to  tell  some  one  twice  to  do  it.  Petty  details 
take  up  just  as  much  room  in  a  manager's 
head  as  big  ideas ;  and  the  more  of  the  first 
you  store  for  him,  the  more  warehouse  room 
you  leave  him  for  the  second.  When  a  boss 
has  to  spend  his  days  swearing  at  his  assist- 
ant and  the  clerks  have  to  sit  up  nights 
hating  him,  they  haven't  much  time  left  to 
swear  by  the  house.  Satisfaction  is  the  oil 
of  the  business  machine. 

Some  fellows  can  only  see  those  above 
227 


A  SELF-MADE  MERCHANT'S 

them,  and  others  can  only  see  those  under 
them,  but  a  good  man  is  cross-eyed  and  can 
see  both  ends  at  once.  An  assistant  who  be- 
comes his  manager's  right  hand  is  going  to 
find  the  left  hand  helping  him ;  and  it's  not 
hard  for  a  clerk  to  find  good  points  in  a 
boss  who  finds  good  ones  in  him.  Pulling 
from  above  and  boosting  from  below  make 
climbing  easy. 

In  handling  men,  your  own  feelings  are 
the  only  ones  that  are  of  no  importance.  I 
don't  mean  by  this  that  you  want  to  sacri- 
fice your  self-respect,  but  you  must  keep  in 
mind  that  the  bigger  the  position  the 
broader  the  man  must  be  to  fill  it.  And  a 
diet  of  courtesy  and  consideration  gives 
girth  to  a  boss. 

Of  course,  all  this  is  going  to  take  so 
much  time  and  thought  that  you  won't  have 
a  very  wide  margin  left  for  golf — especially 
in  the  afternoons.  I  simply  mention  this 
in  passing,  because  I  see  in  the  Chicago 
papers  which  have  been  sent  me:  that  you 
228 


LETTERS  TO  HIS  SON 

were  among  the  players  on  the  links  one 
afternoon  a  fortnight  ago.  Golf's  a  nice, 
foolish  game,  and  there  ain't  any  harm  in  it 
so  far  as  I  know  except  for  the  balls — the 
stiff  balls  at  the  beginning,  the  lost  balls  in 
the  middle,  and  the  highballs  at  the  end  of 
the  game.  But  a  young  fellow  who  wants  to 
be  a  boss  butcher  hasn't  much  daylight  to 
waste  on  any  kind  of  links  except  sausage 
links. 

Of  course,  a  man  should  have  a  certain 
amount  of  play,  just  as  a  boy  is  entitled  to  a 
piece  of  pie  at  the  end  of  his  dinner,  but  he 
don't  want  to  make  a  meal  of  it.  Any  one 
who  lets  sinkers  take  the  place  of  bread  and 
meat  gets  bilious  pretty  young;  and  these 
fellows  who  haven't  any  job,  except  to  blow 
the  old  man's  dollars,  are  a  good  deal  like 
the  little  niggers  in  the  pie-eating  contest 
at  the  County  Fair — they've  a-plenty  of 
pastry  and  they're  attracting  a  heap  of  at- 
tention, but  they've  got  a  stomach-ache  com- 
ing to  them  by  and  by. 
229 


A  SELF-MADE  MERCHANT'S 

I  want  to  caution  you  right  here  against 
getting  the  society  bug  in  your  head.  I'd 
sooner  you'd  smoke  these  Turkish  cigarettes 
which  smell  like  a  fire  in  the  fertilizer  fac- 
tory. You're  going  to  meet  a  good  many 
stray  fools  in  the  course  of  business  every 
day  without  going  out  to  hunt  up  the  main 
herd  after  dark. 

Everybody  over  here  in  Europe  thinks 
that  we  haven't  any  society  in  America,  and 
a  power  of  people  in  New  York  think  that 
we  haven't  any  society  in  Chicago.  But  so 
far  as  I  can  see  there  are  just  as  many 
ninety-nine-cent  men  spending  million-dol- 
lar incomes  in  one  place  as  another ;  and  the 
rules  that  govern  the  game  seem  to  be  the 
same  in  all  three  places — you've  got  to  be  a 
descendant  to  belong,  and  the  farther  you 
descend  the  harder  you  belong.  The  only 
difference  is  that,  in  Europe,  the  ancestor 
who  made  money  enough  so  that  his  family 
could  descend,  has  been  dead  so  long  that 
they  have  forgotten  his  shop;  in  New  York 
230 


LETTERS  TO  HIS  SON 

he's  so  recent  that  they  can  only  pretend  to 
have  forgotten  it;  but  in  Chicago  they  can't 
lose  it  because  the  ancestor  is  hustling  on 
the  Board  of  Trade  or  out  at  the  Stock 
Yards.  I  want  to  say  right  here  that  I  don't 
propose  to  be  an  ancestor  until  after  I'm 
dead.  Then,  if  you  want  to  have  some  fellow 
whose  grandfather  sold  bad  whiskey  to  the 
Indians  sniff  and  smell  pork  when  you  come 
into  the  room,  you  can  suit  yourself. 

Of  course,  I  may  be  off  in  sizing  this  thing 
up,  because  it's  a  little  out  of  my  line.  But 
it's  been  my  experience  that  these  people 
who  think  that  they  are  all  the  choice  cuts 
off  the  critter,  and  that  the  rest  of  us  are 
only  fit  for  sausage,  are  usually  chuck  steak 
when  you  get  them  under  the  knife.  I've 
tried  two  or  three  of  them,  who  had  gone 
broke,  in  the  office,  but  when  you  separate 
them  from  their  money  there's  nothing  left, 
not  even  their  friends. 

I  never  see  a  fellow  trying  to  crawl  or  to 
buy  his  way  into  society  that  I  don't  think 
231 


A  SELF-MADE  MERCHANT'S 

of  my  old  friend  Hank  Smith  and  his  wife 
Kate — Kate  Botts  she  was  before  he  mar- 
ried her — and  how  they  tried  to  butt  their 
way  through  the  upper  crust. 

Hank  and  I  were  boys  together  in  Mis- 
souri, and  he  stayed  along  in  the  old  town 
after  I  left.  I  heard  of  him  on  and  off  as 
tending  store  a  little,  and  farming  a  little, 
and  loafing  a  good  deal.  Then  I  forgot  all 
about  him,  until  one  day  a  few  years  ago 
when  he  turned  up  in  the  papers  as  Captain 
Henry  Smith,  the  Klondike  Gold  King,  just 
back  from  Circle  City,  with  a  million  in 
dust  and  anything  you  please  in  claims. 
There's  never  any  limit  to  what  a  miner  may 
be  worth  in  those,  except  his  imagination. 

I  was  a  little  puzzled  when,  a  week  later, 
my  office  boy  brought  me  a  card  reading ; 
Colonel  Henry  Augustus  Bottes-Smythe, 
but  I  supposed  it  was  some  distinguished 
foreigner  who  had  come  to  size  me  up  so 
that  he  could  round  out  his  roast  on  Chi- 
232 


LETTERS  TO  HIS  SON 

cago  in  his  new  book,  and  I  told  the  boy  to 
show  the  General  in. 

Fve  got  a  pretty  good  memory  for  faces, 
and  I'd  bought  too  much  store  plug  of  Hank 
in  my  time  not  to  know  him,  even  with  a 
clean  shave  and  a  plug  hat.  Some  men  dry 
up  with  success,  but  it  was  just  spouting  out 
of  Hank.  Told  me  he'd  made  his  pile  and 
that  he  was  tired  of  living  on  the  slag  heap ; 
that  he'd  spent  his  whole  life  where  money 
hardly  whispered,  let  alone  talked,  and  he 
was  going  now  where  it  would  shout 
Wanted  to  know  what  was  the  use  of  being 
a  nob  if  a  fellow  wasn't  the  nobbiest  sort  of 
a  nob.  Said  he'd  bought  a  house  on  Beacon 
Hill,  in  Boston,  and  that  if  I'd  prick  up  my 
ears  occasionally  I'd  hear  something  drop 
into  the  Back  Bay.  Handed  me  his  new 
card  four  times  and  explained  that  it  was 
the  rawest  sort  of  dog  to  carry  a  brace  of 
names  in  your  card  holster ;  that  it  gave  you 
the  drop  on  the  swells  every  time,  and  that 

233 


A  SELF-MADE  MERCHANTS 

they  just  had  to  throw  up  both  hands  and 
pass  you  the  pot  when  you  showed  down. 
Said  that  Bottes  was  old  English  for  Botts, 
and  that  Smythe  was  new  American  for 
Smith ;  the  Augustus  was  just  a  fancy  touch, 
a  sort  of  high-card  kicker. 

I  didn't  explain  to  Hank,  because  it  was 
congratulations  and  not  explanations  that 
he  wanted,  and  I  make  it  a  point  to  show  a 
customer  the  line  of  goods  that  he's  looking 
for.  And  I  never  heard  the  full  particulars 
of  his  experiences  in  the  East,  though,  from 
what  I  learned  afterward,  Hank  struck  Bos- 
ton with  a  bang,  all  right. 

He  located  his  claim  on  Beacon  Hill,  be- 
tween a  Mayflower  descendant  and  a  Dec- 
laration Signer's  great-grandson,  breeds 
which  believe  that  when  the  Lord  made  them 
He  was  through,  and  that  the  rest  of  us  just 
happened.  And  he  hadn't  been  in  town  two 
hours  before  he  started  in  to  make  improve- 
ments. There  was  a  high  wrought-iron  rail- 
ing in  front  of  his  house,  and  he  had  that 

234 


LETTERS  TO  HIS  SON 

gilded  first  thing,  because,  as  he  said,  he 
wasn't  running  a  receiving  vault  and  he 
didn't  want  any  mistakes.  Then  he  bought 
a  nice,  open  barouche,  had  the  wheels 
painted  red,  hired  a  nigger  coachman  and 
started  out  in  style  to  be  sociable  and  get 
acquainted.  Left  his  card  all  the  way  down 
one  side  of  Beacon  Street,  and  then  drove 
back  leaving  it  on  the  other.  Everywhere 
he  stopped  he  found  that  the  whole  family 
was  out.  Kept  it  up  a  week,  on  and  off,  but 
didn't  seem  to  have  any  luck.  Thought  that 
the  men  must  be  hot  sports  and  the  women 
great  gadders  to  keep  on  the  jump  so  much. 
Allowed  that  they  were  the  liveliest  little 
lot  of  fleas  that  he  had  ever  chased.  De- 
cided to  quit  trying  to  nail  'em  one  at  a 
time,  and  planned  out  something  that  he 
reckoned  would  round  up  the  whole  bunch. 
Hank  sent  out  a  thousand  invitations  to 
his  grand  opening,  as  he  called  it;  left  one 
at  every  house  within  a  mile.  Had  a  brass 
band  on  the  front  steps  and  fireworks  on  the 

235 


A  SELF-MADE  MERCHANTS 

roof.  Ordered  forty  kegs  from  the  brewery 
and  hired  a  fancy  mixer  to  sling  together 
mild  snorts,  as  he  called  them,  for  the  ladies. 
They  tell  me  that,  when  the  band  got  to 
going  good  on  the  steps  and  the  fireworks 
on  the  roof,  even  Beacon  Street  looked  out 
the  windows  to  see  what  was  doing.  There 
must  have  been  ten  thousand  people  in  the 
street  and  not  a  soul  but  Hank  and  his  wife 
and  the  mixer  in  the  house.  Some  one 
yelled  speech,  and  then  the  whole  crowd 
took  it  up,  till  Hank  came  out  on  the  steps. 
He  shut  off  the  band  with  one  hand  and 
stopped  the  fireworks  with  the  other.  Said 
that  speechmaking  wasn't  his  strangle-hold ; 
that  he'd  been  living  on  snowballs  in  the 
Klondike  for  so  long  that  his  gas-pipe  was 
frozen;  but  that  this  welcome  started  the 
ice  and  he  thought  about  three  fingers  of 
the  plumber's  favorite  prescription  would 
cut  out  the  frost.  Would  the  crowd  join 
him?  He  had  invited  a  few  friends  in  for 
236 


LETTERS  TO  HIS  SON 

the  evening,  but  there  seemed  to  be  some 
misunderstanding  about  the  date,  and  he 
hated  to  have  good  stuff  curdle  on  his  hands. 

While  this  was  going  on,  the  Mayflower 
descendant  was  telephoning  for  the  police 
from  one  side  and  the  Signer's  great-grand- 
son from  the  other,  and  just  as  the  crowd 
yelled  and  broke  for  the  house  two  patrol 
wagons  full  of  policemen  got  there.  But 
they  had  to  turn  in  a  riot  call  and  bring  out 
the  reserves  before  they  could  break  up 
Hank's  little  Boston  tea-party. 

After  all,  Hank  did  what  he  started  out 
to  do  with  his  party — rounded  up  all  his 
neighbors  in  a  bunch,  though  not  exactly 
according  to  schedule.  For  next  morning 
there  were  so  many  descendants  and  great- 
grandsons  in  the  police  court  to  prefer 
charges  that  it  looked  like  a  reunion  of  the 
Pilgrim  Fathers.  The  Judge  fined  Hank 
on  sixteen  counts  and  bound  him  over  to 
keep  the  peace  for  a  hundred  years.  That 

237 


A  SELF-MADE  MERCHANTS 

afternoon  he  left  for  the  West  on  a  special, 
because  the  Limited  didn't  get  there  quick 
enough.  But  before  going  he  tacked  on  the 
front  door  of  his  house  a  sign  which  read : 

"  Neighbors  paying  their  party  calls 
will  please  not  heave  rocks  through 
windows  to  attract  attention.  Not  in 
and  not  going  to  be.  Gone  back  to 
Circle  City  for  a  little  quiet. 

"Yours  truly, 
"HANK  SMITH. 

"  N.  B. — Too  swift  for  your  uncle." 

Hank  dropped  by  my  office  for  a  minute 
on  his  way  to  'Frisco.  Said  he  liked  things 
lively,  but  there  was  altogether  too  much 
rough-house  on  Beacon  Hill  for  him. 
Judged  that  as  the  crowd  which  wasn't  in- 
vited was  so  blamed  sociable,  the  one  which 
was  invited  would  have  stayed  a  week  if  it 
hadn't  slipped  up  on  the  date.  That  might 
238 


LETTERS  TO  HIS  SON 

be  the  Boston  idea,  but  he  wanted  a  little 
more  refinement  in  his.  Said  he  was  a 
pretty  free  spender,  and  would  hold  his  end 
up,  but  he  hated  a  hog.  Of  course  I  told 
Hank  that  Boston  wasn't  all  that  it  was 
cracked  up  to  be  in  the  school  histories,  and 
that  Circle  City  wasn't  so  tough  as  it  read 
in  the  newspapers,  for  there  was  no  way  of 
making  him  understand  that  he  might  have 
lived  in  Boston  for  a  hundred  years  without 
being  invited  to  a  strawberry  sociable.  Be- 
cause a  fellow  cuts  ice  on  the  Arctic  Circle, 
it  doesn't  follow  that  he's  going  to  be  worth 
beans  on  the  Back  Bay. 

I  simply  mention  Hank  in  a  general  way. 
His  case  may  be  a  little  different,  but  it  isn't 
any  more  extreme  than  lots  of  others  all 
around  you  over  there  and  me  over  here. 
Of  course,  I  want  you  to  enjoy  good  society, 
but  any  society  is  good  society  where  con- 
genial men  and  women  meet  together  for 
wholesome  amusement.  But  I  want  you  to 

239 


A  MERCHANT'S  LETTERS 

keep  away  from  people  who  choose  play  for 
a  profession.  A  man's  as  good  as  he  makes 
himself,  but  no  man's  any  good  because  his 
grandfather  was. 

Your  affectionate  father, 

JOHN  GRAHAM. 


240 


No,  17 


FROM  John  Graham, 
at  the  London  House 
of  Graham  &  Co.,  to 
his  son,  Pierrepont,  at  the 
Union     Stock    Yards    in 
Chicago.    Mr.  Pierrepont 
has  written  his  father  that 
he  is  getting  along  fa- 
mously in  his  new  place. 


XVII 

LONDON,  October  24,  189— 
Dear  Pierrepont:  Well,  I'm  headed  for 
home  at  last,  checked  high  and  as  full  of 
prance  as  a  spotted  circus  horse.  Those 
Dutchmen  ain't  so  bad  as  their  language, 
after  all,  for  they've  fixed  up  my  rheuma- 
tism so  that  I  can  bear  down  on  my  right  leg 
without  thinking  that  it's  going  to  break  off. 
I'm  glad  to  learn  from  your  letter  that 
you're  getting  along  so  well  in  your  new 
place,  and  I  hope  that  when  I  get  home  your 
boss  will  back  up  all  the  good  things  which 
you  say  about  yourself.  For  the  future, 
however,  you  needn't  bother  to  keep  me 
posted  along  this  line.  It's  the  one  subject 
on  which  most  men  are  perfectly  frank,  and 
it's  about  the  only  one  on  which  it  isn't 
necessary  to  be.  There's  never  any  use  try- 
ing to  hide  the  fact  that  you're  a  jim-dandy 
— you're  bound  to  be  found  out,  Of  course, 
you  want  to  have  your  eyes  open  all  the 

243 


A  SELF-MADE  MERCHANT'S 

time  for  a  good  man,  but  follow  the  old 
maid's  example — look  under  the  bed  and  in 
the  closet,  not  in  the  mirror,  for  him.  A 
man  who  does  big  things  is  too  busy  to  talk 
about  them.  When  the  jaws  really  need  ex- 
ercise, chew  gum. 

Some  men  go  through  life  on  the  Sarsapa- 
rilla  Theory — that  they've  got  to  give  a  hun- 
dred doses  of  talk  about  themselves  for 
every  dollar  which  they  take  in;  and  that's 
a  pretty  good  theory  when  you're  getting 
a  dollar  for  ten  cents'  worth  of  ingredients. 
But  a  man  who's  giving  a  dollar's  worth  of 
himself  for  ninety-nine  cents  doesn't  need 
to  throw  in  any  explanations. 

Of  course,  you're  going  to  meet  fellows 
right  along  who  pass  as  good  men  for  a 
while,  because  they  say  they're  good  men; 
just  as  a  lot  of  fives  are  in  circulation  which 
are  accepted  at  their  face  value  until  they 
work  up  to  the  receiving  teller.  And  you're 
going  to  see  these  men  taking  buzzards  and 
coining  eagles  from  them  that  will  fool 
244 


LETTERS  TO  HIS  SON 

people  so  long  as  they  can  keep  them  in  the 
air;  but  sooner  or  later  they're  bound  to 
swoop  back  to  their  dead  horse,  and  you'll 
get  the  buzzard  smell. 

Hot  air  can  take  up  a  balloon  a  long 
ways,  but  it  can't  keep  it  there.  And  when 
a  fellow's  turning  flip-flops  up  among  the 
clouds,  he's  naturally  going  to  have  the 
farmers  gaping  at  him.  But  in  the  end 
there  always  comes  a  time  when  the  para- 
chute fails  to  work.  I  don't  know  anything 
that's  quite  so  dead  as  a  man  who's  fallen 
three  or  four  thousand  feet  off  the  edge  of  a 
cloud. 

The  only  way  to  gratify  a  taste  for 
scenery  is  to  climb  a  mountain.  You  don't 
get  up  so  quick,  but  you  don't  come  down 
so  sudden.  Even  then,  there's  a  chance  that 
a  fellow  may  slip  and  fall  over  a  precipice, 
but  not  unless  he's  foolish  enough  to  try 
short-cuts  over  slippery  places;  though 
some  men  can  manage  to  fall  down  the  hall 
stairs  and  break  their  necks.  The  path  isn't 
245 


A  SELF-MADE  MERCHANTS 

the  shortest  way  to  the  top,  but  it's  usually 
the  safest  way. 

Life  isn't  a  spurt,  but  a  long,  steady 
climb.  You  can't  run  far  up-hill  without 
stopping  to  sit  down.  Some  men  do  a  day's 
work  and  then  spend  six  lolling  around  ad- 
miring it.  They  rush  at  a  thing  with  a 
whoop  and  use  up  all  their  wind  in  that. 
And  when  they're  rested  and  have  got  it 
back,  they  whoop  again  and  start  off  in  a 
new  direction.  They  mistake  intention  for 
determination,  and  after  they  have  told  you 
what  they  propose  to  do  and  get  right  up  to 
doing  it,  they  simply  peter  out. 

I've  heard  a  good  deal  in  my  time  about 
the  foolishness  of  hens,  but  when  it  comes 
to  right-down,  plum  foolishness,  give  me  a 
rooster,  every  time.  He's  always  strutting 
and  stretching  and  crowing  and  bragging 
about  things  with  which  he  had  nothing  to 
do.  When  the  sun  rises,  you'd  think  that  he 
was  making  all  the  light,  instead  of  all  the 
noise;  when  the  farmer's  wife  throws  the 
246 


LETTERS  TO  HIS  SON 

scraps  in  the  henyard,  he  crows  as  if  he  was 
the  provider  for  the  whole  farmyard  and 
was  asking  a  blessing  on  the  food ;  when  he 
meets  another  rooster,  he  crows;  and  when 
the  other  rooster  licks  him,  he  crows;  and 
so  he  keeps  it  up  straight  through  the  day. 
He  even  wakes  up  during  the  night  and 
crows  a  little  on  general  principles.  But 
when  you  hear  from  a  hen,  she's  laid  an  egg, 
and  she  don't  make  a  great  deal  of  noise 
about  it,  either. 

I  speak  of  these  things  in  a  general  way, 
because  I  want  you  to  keep  in  mind  all  the 
time  that  steady,  quiet,  persistent,  plain 
work  can't  be  imitated  or  replaced  by  any- 
thing just  as  good,  and  because  your  re- 
quest for  a  job  for  Courtland  Warrington 
naturally  brings  them  up.  You  write  that 
Court  says  that  a  man  who  has  occupied  his 
position  in  the  world  naturally  can't 
cheapen  himself  by  stepping  down  into  any 
little  piddling  job  where  he'd  have  to  do 
undignified  things. 

247 


A  SELF-MADE  MERCHANT'S 

I  want  to  start  right  out  by  saying  that  I 
know  Court  and  his  whole  breed  like  a  glue 
factory,  and  that  we  can't  use  him  in  our 
business.  He's  one  of  those  fellows  who 
start  in  at  the  top  and  naturally  work  down 
to  the  bottom,  because  that  is  where  they 
belong.  His  father  gave  him  an  interest  in 
the  concern  when  he  left  college,  and  since 
the  old  man  failed  three  years  ago  and  took 
a  salary  himself,  Court's  been  sponging  on 
him  and  waiting  for  a  nice,  dignified  job  to 
come  along  and  steal  him.  But  we  are  not 
in  the  kidnapping  business. 

The  only  undignified  job  I  know  of  is 
loafing,  and  nothing  can  cheapen  a  man 
who  sponges  instead  of  hunting  any  sort  of 
work,  because  he's  as  cheap  already  as  they 
can  be  made.  I  never  could  quite  under- 
stand these  fellows  who  keep  down  every 
decent  instinct  in  order  to  keep  up  appear- 
ance, and  who  will  stoop  to  any  sort  of  real 
meanness  to  boost  up  their  false  pride. 

They  always  remind  me  of  little  Fatty 
248 


"  Jim  Hicks  dared  Fatty  Wilkins 
to  eat  a  piece  of  dirt" 


LETTERS  TO  HIS  SON 

Wilkins,  who  came  to  live  in  our  town  back 
in  Missouri  when  I  was  a  boy.  His  mother 
thought  a  heap  of  Patty,  and  Fatty  thought 
a  heap  of  himself,  or  his  stomach,  which 
was  the  same  thing.  Looked  like  he'd  been 
taken  from  a  joke  book.  Used  to  be  a  great 
eater.  Stuffed  himself  till  his  hide  was 
stretched  as  tight  as  a  sausage  skin,  and 
then  howled  for  painkiller.  Spent  all  his 
pennies  for  cakes,  because  candy  wasn't 
filling  enough.  Hogged  'em  in  the  shop, 
for  fear  he  would  have  to  give  some  one  a 
bite  if  he  ate  them  on  the  street. 

The  other  boys  didn't  take  to  Fatty,  and 
they  didn't  make  any  special  secret  of  it 
when  he  was  around.  He  was  a  mighty 
brave  boy  and  a  mighty  strong  boy  and  a 
mighty  proud  boy — with  his  mouth;  but  he 
always  managed  to  slip  out  of  anything  that 
looked  like  a  fight  by  having  a  sore  hand 
or  a  case  of  the  mumps.  The  truth  of  the 
matter  was  that  he  was  afraid  of  every- 
thing except  food,  and  that  was  the  thing 
249 


A  SELF-MADE  MERCHANT'S 

which  was  hurting  him  most.  It's  mighty 
seldom  that  a  fellow's  afraid  of  what  he 
ought  to  be  afraid  of  in  this  world. 

Of  course,  like  most  cowards,  while  Fatty 
always  had  an  excuse  for  not  doing  some- 
thing that  might  hurt  his  skin,  he  would 
take  a  dare  to  do  anything  that  would  hurt 
his  self-respect,  for  fear  the  boys  would 
laugh  at  him,  or  say  that  he  was  afraid,  if 
he  refused.  So  one  day  during  recess  Jim 
Hicks  dared  him  to  eat  a  piece  of  dirt. 
Fatty  hesitated  a  little,  because,  while  he 
was  pretty  promiscuous  about  what  he  put 
into  his  stomach,  he  had  never  included  dirt 
in  his  bill-of-fare.  But  when  the  boys  be- 
gan to  say  that  he  was  afraid,  Fatty  up  and 
swallowed  it. 

And  when  he  dared  the  other  boys  to  do 
the  same  thing  and  none  of  them  would  take 
the  dare,  it  made  him  mighty  proud  and 
puffed  up.  Got  to  charging  the  bigger  boys 
and  the  loungers  around  the  post-office  a 
cent  to  see  him  eat  a  piece  of  dirt  the  size  of 
250 


LETTERS  TO  HIS  SON 

a  hickory-nut,  Found  there  was  good 
money  in  that,  and  added  grasshoppers,  at 
two  cents  apiece,  as  a  side  line.  Found 
them  so  popular  that  he  took  on  chinch 
bugs  at  a  nickel,  and  fairly  coined  money. 
The  last  I  heard  of  Fatty  he  was  in  a  Dime 
Museum,  drawing  two  salaries — one  as 
"  The  Fat  Man,"  and  the  other  as  "  Launce- 
lot,  The  Locust  Eater,  the  Only  Man  Alive 
with  a  Gizzard." 

You  are  going  to  meet  a  heap  of  Fatties, 
first  and  last,  fellows  who'll  eat  a  little 
dirt  "  for  fun  "  or  to  show  off,  and  who'll 
eat  a  little  more  because  they  find  that 
there's  some  easy  money  or  times  in  it.  It's 
hard  to  get  at  these  men,  because  when 
they've  lost  everything  they  had  to  be  proud 
of,  they  still  keep  their  pride.  You  can 
always  bet  that  when  a  fellow's  pride  makes 
him  touchy,  it's  because  there  are  some 
mighty  raw  spots  on  it. 

It's  been  my  experience  that  pride  is  usu- 
ally a  spur  to  the  strong  and  a  drag  on  the 

251 


A  SELF-MADE  MERCHANT'S 

weak.  It  drives  the  strong  man  along  and 
holds  the  weak  one  back.  It  makes  the 
fellow  with  the  stiff  upper  lip  and  the 
square  jaw  smile  at  a  laugh  and  laugh  at  a 
sneer;  it  keeps  his  conscience  straight  and 
his  back  humped  over  his  work;  it  makes 
him  appreciate  the  little  things  and  fight 
for  the  big  ones.  But  it  makes  the  fellow 
with  the  retreating  forehead  do  the  thing 
that  looks  right,  instead  of  the  thing  that  is 
right ;  it  makes  him  fear  a  laugh  and  shrivel 
up  at  a  sneer;  it  makes  him  live  to-day  on 
to-morrow's  salary;  it  makes  him  a  cheap 
imitation  of  some  Willie  who  has  a  little 
more  money  than  he  has,  without  giving 
him  zip  enough  to  go  out  and  force  luck 
for  himself. 

I  never  see  one  of  these  fellows  swelling 
around  with  their  petty  larceny  pride  that 
I  don't  think  of  a  little  experience  of  mine 
when  I  was  a  boy.  An  old  fellow  caught  me 
lifting  a  watermelon  in  his  patch,  one  after- 
noon, and  instead  of  cuffing  me  and  letting 
252 


LETTERS  TO  HIS  SON 

me  go,  as  I  had  expected  if  I  got  caught,  he 
led  me  home  by  the  ear  to  my  ma,  and  told 
her  what  I  had  been  up  to. 

Your  grandma  had  been  raised  on  the 
old-fashioned  plan,  and  she  had  never  heard 
of  these  new-fangled  theories  of  reasoning 
gently  with  a  child  till  its  under  lip  begins 
to  stick  out  and  its  eyes  to  fill  with  tears  as 
it  sees  the  error  of  its  ways.  She  fetched 
the  tears  all  right,  but  she  did  it  with  a 
trunk  strap  or  a  slipper.  And  your  grand- 
ma was  a  pretty  substantial  woman.  Noth- 
ing of  the  tootsey-wootsey  about  her  foot, 
and  nothing  of  the  airy-fairy  trifle  about 
her  slipper.  When  she  was  through  I  knew 
that  I'd  been  licked — polished  right  off  to  a 
point — and  then  she  sent  me  to  my  room 
and  told  me  not  to  poke  my  nose  out  of  it 
till  I  could  recite  the  Ten  Commandments 
and  the  Sunday-school  lesson  by  heart. 

There  was  a  whole  chapter  of  it,  and  an 
Old  Testament  chapter  at  that,  but  I  laid 
right  into  it  because  I  knew  ma,  and  supper 

253 


A  SELF-MADE  MERCHANT'S 

was  only  two  hours  off.  I  can  repeat  that 
chapter  still,  forward  and  backward,  with- 
out missing  a  word  or  stopping  to  catch  my 
breath. 

Every  now  and  then  old  Doc  Hoover  used 
to  come  into  the  Sunday-school  room  and 
scare  the  scholars  into  fits  by  going  around 
from  class  to  class  and  asking  questions. 
That  next  Sunday,  for  the  first  time,  I  was 
glad  to  see  him  happen  in,  and  I  didn't  try 
to  escape  attention  when  he  worked  around 
to  our  class.  For  ten  minutes  I'd  been 
busting  for  him  to  ask  me  to  recite  a 
verse  of  the  lesson,  and,  when  he  did, 
I  simply  cut  loose  and  recited  the 
whole  chapter  and  threw  in  the  Ten 
Commandments  for  good  measure.  It  sort 
of  dazed  the  Doc,  because  he  had  come 
to  me  for  information  about  the  Old  Testa- 
ment before,  and  we'd  never  got  much  be- 
yond, And  Ahab  begat  Jahab,  or  words  to 
that  effect.  But  when  he  got  over  the  shock 
he  made  me  stand  right  up  before  the  whole 

254 


LETTERS  TO  HIS  SON 

school  and  do  it  again.  Patted  me  on  the 
head  and  said  I  was  "  an  honor  to  my  par- 
ents and  an  example  to  my  playmates." 

I  had  been  looking  down  all  the  time, 
feeling  mighty  proud  and  scared,  but  at  that 
I  couldn't  help  glancing  up  to  see  the  other 
boys  admire  me.  But  the  first  person  my 
eye  lit  on  was  your  grandma,  standing  in 
the  back  of  the  room,  where  she  had  stopped 
for  a  moment  on  her  way  up  to  church,  and 
glaring  at  me  in  a  mighty  unpleasant  way. 

"  Tell  'em,  John,"  she  said  right  out  loud, 
before  everybody. 

There  was  no  way  to  run,  for  the  Elder 
had  hold  of  my  hand,  and  there  was  no 
place  to  hide,  though  I  reckon  I  could  have 
crawled  into  a  rat  hole.  So,  to  gain  time,  I 
blurted  out: 

"Tell  'em  what,  mam?" 

"  TelP  em  how  you  come  to  have  your  les- 
son so  nice." 

I  learned  to  hate  notoriety  right  then  and 
there,  but  I  knew  there  was  no  switching 


A  MERCHANTS  LETTERS 

her  off  on  to  the  weather  when  she  wanted  to 
talk  religion.  So  I  shut  my  eyes  and  let  it 
come,  though  it  caught  on  my  palate  once  or 
twice  on  the  way  out. 

"  Hooked  a  watermelon,  mam." 
There  wasn't  any  need  for  further  par- 
ticulars with  that  crowd,  and  they  simply 
howled.  Ma  led  me  up  to  our  pew,  allow- 
ing that  she'd  tend  to  me  Monday  for  dis- 
gracing her  in  public  that  way — and  she 
did. 

That  was  a  twelve-grain  dose,  without 
any  sugar  coat,  but  it  sweat  more,  cant  and 
false  pride  out  of  my  system  than  I  could 
get  back  into  it  for  the  next  twenty  years. 
I  learned  right  there  how  to  be  humble, 
which  is  a  heap  more  important  than  know- 
ing how  to  be  proud.  There  are  mighty  few 
men  that  need  any  lessons  in  that. 

Your  affectionate  father, 

JOHN  GRAHAM. 


256 


No,  18 


FROM  John  Graham, 
at  the  London  House 
of  Graham  &  Co.,  to 
his  son,  Pierrepont,  at  the 
Union  Stock  Yards  in 
Chicago.  Mr.  Pierrepont 
is  worried  over  rumors 
that  the  old  man  is  a  bear 
on  lard,  and  that  the  longs 
are  about  to  make  him 
climb  a  tree. 


XVIII 

LONDON,  October  27,  189— 
Dear  Pierrepont:  Yours  of  the  twenty- 
first  inst.  to  hand  and  I  note  the  inclosed 
clippings.  You  needn't  pay  any  special  at- 
tention to  this  newspaper  talk  about  the 
Comstock  crowd  having  caught  me  short  a 
big  line  of  November  lard.  I  never  sell 
goods  without  knowing  where  I  can  find 
them  when  I  want  them,  and  if  these  fellows 
try  to  put  their  forefeet  in  the  trough,  or 
start  any  shoving  and  crowding,  they're 
going  to  find  me  forgetting  my  table 
manners,  too.  For  when  it  comes  to  funny 
business  I'm  something  of  a  humorist  my- 
self. And  while  I'm  too  old  to  run,  I'm 
young  enough  to  stand  and  fight. 

First  and  last,  a  good  many  men  have 
gone  gunning  for  me,  but  they've  always 
planned  the  obsequies  before  they  caught 
the  deceased.  I  reckon  there  hasn't  been  a 
time  in  twenty  years  when  there  wasn't  a 
259 


A  SELF-MADE  MERCHANT'S 

nice  "  Gates  Ajar  "  piece  all  made  up  and 
ready  for  me  in  some  office  near  the  Board 
of  Trade.  But  the  first  essential  of  a  quiet 
funeral  is  a  willing  corpse.  And  I'm  still 
sitting  up  and  taking  nourishment. 

There  are  two  things  you  never  want  to 
pay  any  attention  to — abuse  and  flattery. 
The  first  can't  harm  you  and  the  second 
can't  help  you.  Some  men  are  like  yellow 
dogs — when  you're  coming  toward  them 
they'll  jump  up  and  try  to  lick  your 
hands;  and  when  you're  walking  away 
from  them  they'll  sneak  up  behind  and 
snap  at  your  heels.  Last  year,  when 
I  was  bulling  the  market,  the  longs  all 
said  that  I  was  a  kind-hearted  old  philan- 
thropist, who  was  laying  awake  nights 
scheming  to  get  the  farmers  a  top  price  for 
their  hogs;  and  the  shorts  allowed  that  I 
was  an  infamous  old  robber,  who  was  steal- 
ing the  pork  out  of  the  workingman's  pot. 
As  long  as  you  can't  please  both  sides  in 
260 


LETTERS  TO  HIS  SON 

this  world,  there's,  nothing  like  pleasing 
your  own  side. 

There  are  mighty  few  people  who  can  see 
any  side  to  a  thing  except  their  own  side.  I 
remember  once  I  had  a  vacant  lot  out  on  the 
Avenue,  and  a  lady  came  in  to  my  office  and 
in  a  soothing-sirupy  way  asked  if  I  would 
lend  it  to  her,  as  she  wanted  to  build  a  creche 
on  it.  I  hesitated  a  little,  because  I  had 
never  heard  of  a  creche  before,  and  some- 
ways  it  sounded  sort  of  foreign  and  frisky, 
though  the  woman  looked  like  a  good,  safe, 
reliable  old  heifer.  But  she  explained  that 
a  creche  was  a  baby  farm,  where  old  maids 
went  to  wash  and  feed  and  stick  pins  in 
other  people's  children  while  their  mothers 
were  off  at  work.  Of  course,  there  was 
nothing  in  that  to  get  our  pastor  or  the 
police  after  me,  so  I  told  her  to  go  ahead. 

She  went  off  happy,  but  about  a  week  later 
she  dropped  in  again,  looking  sort  of  dis- 
satisfied, to  find  out  if  I  wouldn't  build  the 
261 


A  SELF-MADE  MERCHANTS 

creche  itself.  It  seemed  like  a  worthy  ob- 
ject, so  I  sent  some  carpenters  over  to 
knock  together  a  long  frame  pavilion.  She 
was  mighty  grateful,  you  bet,  and  I  didn't 
see  her  again  for  a  fortnight.  Then  she 
called  by  to  say  that  so  long  as  I  was  in 
the  business  and  they  didn't  cost  me  any- 
thing special,  would  I  mind  giving  her  a 
few  cows.  She  had  a  surprised  and  grieved 
expression  on  her  face  as  she  talked,  and  the 
way  she  put  it  made  me  feel  that  I  ought 
to  be  ashamed  of  myself  for  not  having 
thought  of  the  live  stock  myself.  So  I  threw 
in  half  a  dozen  cows  to  provide  the  refresh- 
ments. 

I  thought  that  was  pretty  good  measure, 
but  the  carpenters  hadn't  more  than  finished 
with  the  pavilion  before  the  woman  tele- 
phoned a  sharp  message  to  ask  why  I  hadn't 
had  it  painted. 

I  was  too  busy  that  morning  to  quarrel, 
so  I  sent  word  that  I  would  fix  it  up;  and 
when  I  was  driving  by  there  next  day  the 
262 


LETTERS  TO  HIS  SON 

painters  were  hard  at  work  on  it.  There 
was  a  sixty-foot  frontage  of  that  shed  on  the 
Avenue,  and  I  saw  right  off  that  it  was  just 
a  natural  signboard.  So  I  called  over  the 
boss  painter  and  between  us  we  cooked  up 
a  nice  little  ad  that  ran  something  like  this : 

Graham's  Extract: 
It  Makes  the  Weak  Strong. 

Well,  sir,  when  she  saw  the  ad  next  morn- 
ing that  old  hen  just  scratched  gravel. 
Went  all  around  town  saying  that  I  had 
given  a  five-hundred-dollar  shed  to  charity 
and  painted  a  thousand-dollar  ad  on  it.  Al- 
lowed I  ought  to  send  my  check  for  that 
amount  to  the  creche  fund.  Kept  at  it  till 
I  began  to  think  there  might  be  something 
in  it,  after  all,  and  sent  her  the  money. 
Then  I  found  a  fellow  who  wanted  to  build 
in  that  neighborhood,  sold  him  the  lot  cheap, 
and  got  out  of  the  creche  industry. 

I've  put  a  good  deal  more  than  work  into 
my  business,  and  I've  drawn  a  good  deal 
263 


A  SELF-MADE  MERCHANT'S 

more  than  money  out  of  it;  but  the  only 
thing  I've  ever  put  into  it  which  didn't  draw 
dividends  in  fun  or  dollars  was  worry. 
That  is  a  branch  of  the  trade  which  you 
want  to  leave  to  our  competitors. 

I've  always  found  worrying  a  blamed 
sight  more  uncertain  than  horse-racing — 
it's  harder  to  pick  a  winner  at  it  You  go 
home  worrying  because  you're  afraid  that 
your  fool  new  clerk  forgot  to  lock  the  safe 
after  you,  and  during  the  night  the  lard 
refinery  burns  down;  you  spend  a  year 
fretting  because  you  think  Bill  Jones  is 
going  to  cut  you  out  with  your  best  girl,  and 
then  you  spend  ten  worrying  because  he 
didn't;  you  worry  over  Charlie  at  college 
because  he's  a  little  wild,  and  he  writes  you 
that  he's  been  elected  president  of  the  Y. 
M.  C.  A. ;  and  you  worry  over  William  be- 
cause he's  so  pious  that  you're  afraid  he's 
going  to  throw  up  everything  and  go  to 
China  as  a  missionary,  and  he  draws  on  you 
for  a  hundred;  you  worry  because  you're 
264 


LETTERS  TO  HIS  SON 

afraid  your  business  is  going  to  smash,  and 
your  health  busts  up  instead.  Worrying  is 
the  one  game  in  which,  if  you  guess  right, 
you  don't  get  any  satisfaction  out  of  your 
smartness.  A  busy  man  has  no  time  to 
bother  with  it,  He  can  always  find  plenty 
of  old  women  in  skirts  or  trousers  to  spend 
their  days  worrying  over  their  own  troubles 
and  to  sit  up  nights  waking  his. 

Speaking  of  handing  over  your  worries 
to  others  naturally  calls  to  mind  the  Widow 
Williams  and  her  son  Bud,  who  was  a  play- 
mate of  mine  when  I  was  a  boy.  Bud  was 
the  youngest  of  the  Widow's  troubles,  and 
she  was  a  woman  whose  troubles  seldom 
came  singly.  Had  fourteen  altogether,  and 
four  pair  of  'em  were  twins.  Used  to  turn 
'em  loose  in  the  morning,  when  she  let  out 
her  cows  and  pigs  to  browse  along  the 
street,  and  then  she'd  shed  all  worry  over 
them  for  the  rest  of  the  day.  Allowed  that 
if  they  got  hurt  the  neighbors  would  bring 
them  home;  and  that  if  they  got  hungry 
265 


A  SELF-MADE  MERCHANT'S 

they'd  come  home.  And  someways,  the 
whole  drove  always  showed  up  safe  and 
dirty  about  meal  time. 

I've  no  doubt  she  thought  a  lot  of  Bud, 
but  when  a  woman  has  fourteen  it  sort  of 
unsettles  her  mind  so  that  she  can't  focus 
her  affections  or  play  any  favorites.  And 
so  when  Bud's  clothes  were  found  at  the 
swimming  hole  one  day,  and  no  Bud  inside 
them,  she  didn't  take  on  up  to  the  expecta- 
tions of  the  neighbors  who  had  brought  the 
news,  and  who  were  standing  around  wait- 
ing for  her  to  go  off  into  something  special 
in  the  way  of  high-strikes. 

She  allowed  that  they  were  Bud's  clothes, 
all  right,  but  she  wanted  to  know  where  the 
remains  were.  Hinted  that  there'd  be  no 
funeral,  or  such  like  expensive  goings-on, 
until  some  one  produced  the  deceased.  Take 
her  by  and  large,  she  was  a  pretty  cool, 
calm  cucumber. 

But  if  she  showed  a  little  too  much  Chris- 
tian resignation,  the  rest  of  the  town  was 
266 


LETTERS  TO  HIS  SON 

mightily  stirred  up  over  Bud's  death,  and 
every  one  just  quit  work  to  tell  each  other 
what  a  noble  little  fellow  he  was;  and  how 
his  mother  hadn't  deserved  to  have  such  a 
bright  little  sunbeam  in  her  home;  and  to 
drag  the  river  between  talks.  But  they 
couldn't  get  a  rise. 

Through  all  the  worry  and  excitement  the 
Widow  was  the  only  one  who  didn't  show 
any  special  interest,  except  to  ask  for  re- 
sults. But  finally,  at  the  end  of  a  week, 
when  they'd  strained  the  whole  river 
through  their  drags  and  hadn't  anything  to 
show  for  it  but  a  collection  of  tin  cans 
and  dead  catfish,  she  threw  a  shawl  over 
her  head  and  went  down  the  street  to  the 
cabin  of  Louisiana  Clytemnestra,  an  old 
yellow  woman,  who  would  go  into  a  trance 
for  four  bits  and  find  a  fortune  for  you  for 
a  dollar.  I  reckon  she'd  have  called  herself 
a  clairvoyant  nowadays,  but  then  she  was 
just  a  voodoo  woman. 

Well,  the  Widow  said  she  reckoned  that 
267 


A  SELF-MADE  MERCHANTS 

boys  ought  to  be  let  out  as  well  as  in  for 
half  price,  and  so  she  laid  down  two  bits, 
allowing  that  she  wanted  a  few  minutes' 
private  conversation  with  her  Bud.  Clytie 
said  she'd  do  her  best,  but  that  spirits  were 
mighty  snifty  and  high-toned,  even  when 
they'd  only  been  poor  white  trash  on  earth, 
and  it  might  make  them  mad  to  be  called 
away  from  their  high  jinks  if  they  were  tak- 
ing a  little  recreation,  or  from  their  high- 
priced  New  York  customers  if  they  were 
working,  to  tend  to  cut-rate  business.  Still, 
she'd  have  a  try,  and  she  did.  But  after 
having  convulsions  for  half  an  hour,  she 
gave  it  up.  Reckoned  that  Bud  was  up  to 
some  cussedness  off  somewhere,  and  that  he 
wouldn't  answer  for  any  two-bits. 

The  Widow  was  badly  disappointed,  but 
she  allowed  that  that  was  just  like  Bud. 
He'd  always  been  a  boy  that  never  could  be 
found  when  any  one  wanted  him.  So  she 
went  off,  saying  that  she'd  had  her  money's 
worth  in  seeing  Clytie  throw  those  fancy 
268 


"  Elder  Hoover  was  accounted  a 
powerful  exborter  in  our  parts" 


LETTERS  TO  HIS  SON 

fits.  But  next  day  she  came  again  and  paid 
down  four  bits,  and  Clytie  reckoned  that 
that  ought  to  fetch  Bud  sure.  Someways 
though,  she  didn't  have  any  luck,  and  finally 
the  Widow  suggested  that  she  call  up  Bud's 
father — Buck  Williams  had  been  dead  a 
matter  of  ten  years — and  the  old  man  re- 
sponded promptly. 

"Where's  Bud?"  asked  the  Widow. 

Hadn't  laid  eyes  on  him.  Didn't  know 
he'd  come  across.  Had  he  joined  the  church 
before  he  started? 

"  No." 

Then  he'd  have  to  look  downstairs  for 
him. 

Clytie  told  the  Widow  to  call  again  and 
they'd  get  him  sure.  So  she  came  back  next 
day  and  laid  down  a  dollar.  That  fetched 
old  Buck  Williams'  ghost  on  the  jump,  you 
bet,  but  he  said  he  hadn't  laid  eyes  on  Bud 
yet.  They  hauled  the  Sweet  By  and  By  with 
a  drag  net,  but  they  couldn't  get  a  rap  from 
him.  Clytie  trotted  out  George  Washing- 
269 


A  SELF-MADE  MERCHANT'S 

ton,  and  Napoleon,  and  Billy  Patterson,  and 
Ben  Franklin,  and  Captain  Kidd,  just  to 
show  that  there  was  no  deception,  but  they 
couldn't  get  a  whisper  even  from  Bud. 

I  reckon  Clytie  had  been  stringing  the 
old  lady  along,  intending  to  produce  Bud's 
spook  as  a  sort  of  red-fire,  calcium-light, 
grand-march-of-the- Amazons  climax,  but  she 
didn't  get  a  chance.  For  right  there  the  old 
lady  got  up  with  a  mighty  set  expression 
around  her  lips  and  marched  out,  muttering 
that  it  was  just  as  she  had  thought  all  along 
— Bud  wasn't  there.  And  when  the  neigh- 
bors dropped  in  that  afternoon  to  plan  out 
a  memorial  service  for  her  "  lost  lamb,"  she 
chased  them  off  the  lot  with  a  broom.  Said 
that  they  had  looked  in  the  river  for  him 
and  that  she  had  looked  beyond  the  river 
for  him,  and  that  they  would  just  stand  pat 
now  and  wait  for  him  to  make  the  next 
move.  Allowed  that  if  she  could  once  get 
her  hands  in  "  that  lost  lamb's  "  wool  there 
might  be  an  opening  for  a  funeral  when  she 
270 


LETTERS  TO  HIS  SON 

got  through  with  him,  but  there  wouldn't 
be  till  then.  Altogether,  it  looked  as  if 
there  was  a  heap  of  trouble  coming  to  Bud 
if  he  had  made  any  mistake  and  was  still 
alive. 

The  Widow  found  her  "  lost  lamb  "  hiding 
behind  a  rain-barrel  when  she  opened  up 
the  house  next  morning,  and  there  was  a 
mighty  touching  and  affecting  scene.  In 
fact,  the  Widow  must  have  touched  him  at 
least  a  hundred  times  and  every  time  he 
was  affected  to  tears,  for  she  was  using  a 
bed  slat,  which  is  a  powerfully  strong  moral 
agent  for  making  a  boy  see  the  error  of  his 
ways.  And  it  was  a  month  after  that  before 
Bud  could  go  down  Main  Street  without 
some  man  who  had  called  him  a  noble  little 
fellow,  or  a  bright,  manly  little  chap,  while 
he  was  drowned,  reaching  out  and  fetching 
him  a  clip  on  the  ear  for  having  come  back 
and  put  the  laugh  on  him. 

No  one  except  the  Widow  ever  really  got 
at  the  straight  of  Bud's  conduct,  but  it  ap- 

271 


A  MERCHANT'S  LETTERS 

peared  that  he  left  home  to  get  a  few  Indian 
scalps,  and  that  he  came  back  for  a  little 
bacon  and  corn  pone, 

I  simply  mention  the  Widow  in  passing 
as  an  example  of  the  fact  that  the  time  to 
do  your  worrying  is  when  a  thing  is  all 
over,  and  that  the  way  to  do  it  is  to  leave 
it  to  the  neighbors.  I  sail  for  home  to- 
morrow. 

Your  affectionate  father, 

JOHN  GRAHAM. 


272 


No,  19 


FROM  John  Graham, 
at  the  New  York 
house  of  Graham  & 
Co.,  to  his  son,  Pierrepont, 
at  the  Union  Stock  Yards 
in  Chicago.  The  old  man, 
on  the  voyage  home,  has 
met  a  girl  who  interests 
him  and  who  in  turn 
seems  to  be  interested  in 
Mr.  Pierrepont. 


XIX 

NEW  YORK,  November  4,  189 — 
Dear  Pierrepont:  Who  is  this  Helen 
Heath,  and  what  are  your  intentions  there? 
She  knows  a  heap  more  about  you  than  she 
ought  to  know  if  they're  not  serious,  and  I 
know  a  heap  less  about  her  than  I  ought  to 
know  if  they  are.  Hadn't  got  out  of  sight  of 
land  before  we'd  become  acquainted  some- 
how, and  she's  been  treating  me  like  a  father 
clear  across  the  Atlantic.  She's  a  mighty 
pretty  girl,  and  a  mighty  nice  girl,  and  a 
mighty  sensible  girl — in  fact  she's  so  exactly 
the  sort  of  girl  I'd  like  to  see  you  marry  that 
I'm  afraid  there's  nothing  in  it. 

Of  course,  your  salary  isn't  a  large  one 
yet,  but  you  can  buy  a  whole  lot  of  happiness 
with  fifty  dollars  a  week  when  you  have  the 
right  sort  of  a  woman  for  your  purchasing 
agent.  And  while  I  don't  go  much  on  love 
in  a  cottage,  love  in  a  flat,  with  fifty  a  week 
as  a  starter,  is  just  about  right,  if  the  girl  is 


A  SELF-MADE  MERCHANT'S 

just  about  right.  If  she  isn't,  it  doesn't 
make  any  special  difference  how  you  start 
out,  you're  going  to  end  up  all  wrong. 

Money  ought  never  to  be  the  consideration 
in  marriage,  but  it  always  ought  to  be  a  con- 
sideration. When  a  boy  and  a  girl  don't 
think  enough  about  money  before  the  cere- 
mony, they're  going  to  have  to  think  alto- 
gether too  much  about  it  after;  and  when  a 
man's  doing  sums  at  home  evenings,  it 
comes  kind  of  awkward  for  him  to  try  to 
hold  his  wife  on  his  lap. 

There's  nothing  in  this  talk  that  two  can 
live  cheaper  than  one.  A  good  wife  doubles 
a  man's  expenses  and  doubles  his  happiness, 
and  that's  a  pretty  good  investment  if  a  fel- 
low's got  the  money  to  invest.  I  have  met 
women  who  had  cut  their  husband's  ex- 
penses in  half,  but  they  needed  the  money 
because  they  had  doubled  their  own.  I 
might  add,  too,  that  I've  met  a  good  many 
husbands  who  had  cut  their  wives'  expenses 
in  half,  and  they  fit  naturally  into  any  dis- 
276 


LETTERS  TO  HIS  SON 

cussion  of  our  business,  because  they  are 
hogs.  There's  a  point  where  economy  be- 
comes a  vice,  and  that's  when  a  man  leaves 
its  practice  to  his  wife. 

An  unmarried  man  is  a  good  deal  like  a 
piece  of  unimproved  real  estate — he  may  be 
worth  a  whole  lot  of  money,  but  he  isn't  of 
any  particular  use  except  to  build  on.  The 
great  trouble  with  a  lot  of  these  fellows  is 
that  they're  "  made  land,"  and  if  you  dig 
down  a  few  feet  you  strike  ooze  and  booze 
under  the  layer  of  dollars  that  their  daddies 
dumped  in  on  top.  Of  course,  the  only  way 
to  deal  with  a  proposition  of  that  sort  is  to 
drive  forty-foot  piles  clear  down  to  solid 
rock  and  then  to  lay  railroad  iron  and  ce- 
ment till  you've  got  something  to  build  on. 
But  a  lot  of  women  will  go  right  ahead  with- 
out any  preliminaries  and  wonder  what's  the 
matter  when  the  walls  begin  to  crack  and 
tumble  about  their  ears. 

I  never  come  across  a  case  of  this  sort 
without  thinking  of  Jack  Carter,  whose  fa- 

277 


A  SELF-MADE  MERCHANT'S 

ther  died  about  ten  years  ago  and  left  Jack 
a  million  dollars,  and  left  me  as  trustee  of 
both  until  Jack  reached  his  twenty-fifth 
birthday.  I  didn't  relish  the  job  particu- 
larly, because  Jack  was  one  of  these  char- 
lotte-russe  boys,  all  whipped  cream  and 
sponge  cake  and  high-priced  flavoring  ex- 
tracts, without  any  filling  qualities.  There 
wasn't  any  special  harm  in  him,  but  there 
wasn't  any  special  good,  either,  and  I  always 
feel  that  there's  more  hope  for  a  fellow  who's 
an  out  and  out  cuss  than  for  one  who's 
simply  made  up  of  a  lot  of  little  trifling 
meannesses.  Jack  wore  mighty  warm 
clothes  and  mighty  hot  vests,  and  the  girls 
all  said  that  he  was  a  perfect  dream,  but  I've 
never  been  one  who  could  get  a  great  deal 
of  satisfaction  out  of  dreams. 

It's  mighty  seldom  that  I  do  an  exhibition 
mile,  but  the  winter  after  I  inherited  Jack 
— he  was  twenty-three  years  old  then — your 
Ma  kept  after  me  so  strong  that  I  finally  put 
on  my  fancy  harness  and  let  her  trot  me 
278 


LETTERS  TO  HIS  SON 

around  to  a  meet  at  the  Ralstons  one  eve- 
ning. Of  course,  I  was  in  the  Percheron 
class,  and  so  I  just  stood  around  with  a  lot 
of  heavy  old  draft  horses,  who  ought  to  have 
been  resting  up  in  their  stalls,  and  watched 
the  three-year-olds  prance  and  cavort  round 
the  ring.  Jack  was  among  them,  of  course, 
dancing  with  the  youngest  Churchill  girl, 
and  holding  her  a  little  tighter,  I  thought, 
than  was  necessary  to  keep  her  from  falling. 
Had  both  ends  working  at  once — never 
missed  a  stitch  with  his  heels  and  was  turn- 
ing out  a  steady  stream  of  fancy  work  with 
his  mouth.  And  all  the  time  he  was  look- 
ing at  that  girl  as  intent  and  eager  as  a 
Scotch  terrier  at  a  rat  hole. 

I  happened  just  then  to  be  pinned  into  a 
corner  with  two  or  three  women  who 
couldn't  escape — Edith  Curzon,  a  great  big 
brunette  whom  I  knew  Jack  had  been  pretty 
soft  on,  and  little  Mabel  Moore,  a  nice  roly- 
poly  blonde,  and  it  didn't  take  me  long  to 
see  that  they  were  watching  Jack  with  a 


A  SELF-MADE  MERCHANT'S 

hair-pulling  itch  in  their  finger-tips.  In 
fact,  it  looked  to  me  as  if  the  young  scamp 
was  a  good  deal  more  popular  than  the  facts 
about  him,  as  I  knew  them,  warranted  him 
in  being. 

I  slipped  out  early,  but  next  evening, 
when  I  was  sitting  in  my  little  smoking- 
room,  Jack  came  charging  in,  and,  without 
any  sparring  for  an  opening,  burst  out  with : 

"  Isn't  she  a  stunner,  Mr.  Graham !  " 

I  allowed  that  Miss  Curzon  was  some- 
thing on  the  stun. 

"  Miss  Curzon,  indeed,"  he  sniffed. 
"  She's  well  enough  in  a  big,  black  way,  but 

Miss  Churchill "  and  he  began  to  paw 

the  air  for  adjectives. 

"  But  how  was  I  to  know  that  you  meant 
Miss  Churchill?"  I  answered.  "It's  just 
a  fortnight  now  since  you  told  me  that  Miss 
Curzon  was  a  goddess,  and  that  she  was  go- 
ing to  reign  in  your  life  and  make  it  a 
heaven,  or  something  of  that  sort.  I  forget 
280 


LETTERS  TO  HIS  SON 

just  the  words,  but  they  were  mighty  beauti- 
ful thoughts  and  did  you  credit." 

"  Don't  remind  me  of  it,"  Jack  groaned. 
"  It  makes  me  sick  every  time  I  think  what 
an  ass  I've  been." 

I  allowed  that  I  felt  a  little  nausea  my- 
self, but  I  told  him  that  this  time,  at  least, 
he'd  shown  some  sense;  that  Miss  Churchill 
was  a  mighty  pretty  girl  and  rich  enough  so 
that  her  liking  him  didn't  prove  anything 
worse  against  her  than  bad  judgment;  and 
that  the  thing  for  him  to  do  was  to  quit  his 
foolishness,  propose  to  her,  and  dance  the 
heel,  toe,  and  a  one,  two,  three  with  her  for 
the  rest  of  his  natural  days. 

Jack  hemmed  and  hawked  a  little  over 
this,  but  finally  he  came  out  with  it : 

"  That's  the  deuce  of  it,"  says  he.  "  I'm 
in  a  beastly  mess — I  want  to  marry  her — 
she's  the  only  girl  in  the  world  for  me — the 
only  one  I've  ever  really  loved,  and  I've  pro- 
posed— that  is,  I  want  to  propose  to  her, 
281 


A  SELF-MADE  MERCHANT'S 

but  I'm  engaged  to  Edith  Curzon  on  the 
quiet." 

"  I  reckon  you'll  marry  her,  then,"  I  said ; 
"  because  she  strikes  me  as  a  young  woman 
who's  not  going  to  lose  a  million  dollars 
without  putting  a  tracer  after  it." 

"And  that's  not  the  worst  of  it,"  Jack 
went  on. 

"Not  the  worst  of  it!  What  do  you 
mean!  You  haven't  married  her  on  the 
quiet,  too,  have  you?  " 

"  No,  but  there's  Mabel  Moore,  you  know." 

I  didn't  know,  but  I  guessed.  "You 
haven't  been  such  a  double-barreled  donkey 
as  to  give  her  an  option  on  yourself,  too?  " 

"  No,  no ;  but  I've  said  things  to  her  which 
she  may  have  misconstrued,  if  she's  inclined 
to  be  literal." 

"  You  bet  she  is,"  I  answered.  "  I  never 
saw  a  nice,  fat,  blonde  girl  who  took  a  mil- 
lion-dollar offer  as  a  practical  joke.  What 
is  it  you've  said  to  her?  '  I  love  you,  dar- 
282 


LETTERS  TO  HIS  SON 

ling/  or  something  about  as  foxy  and  non- 
committal." 

"  Not  that — not  that  at  all ;  but  she  may 
have  stretched  what  I  said  to  mean  that." 

Well,  sir,  I  just  laid  into  that  fellow  when 
I  heard  that,  though  I  could  see  that  he 
didn't  think  it  was  refined  of  me.  He'd 
never  made  it  any  secret  that  he  thought 
me  a  pretty  coarse  old  man,  and  his  face 
showed  me  now  that  I  was  jarring  his  deli- 
cate works. 

"  I  suppose  I  have  been  indiscreet,"  he 
said,  "  but  I  must  say  I  expected  something 
different  from  you,  after  coming  out  this 
way  and  owning  up.  Of  course,  if  you  don't 
care  to  help  me " 

I  cut  him  short  there.  "  I've  got  to  help 
you.  But  I  want  you  to  tell  me  the  truth. 
How  have  you  managed  to  keep  this  Curzon 
girl  from  announcing  her  engagement  to 
you?" 

"  Well,"  and  there  was  a  scared  grin  on 

283 


A  SELF-MADE  MERCHANT'S 

Jack's  face  now ;  "  I  told  her  that  you,  as 
trustee  under  father's  will,  had  certain  un- 
pleasant powers  over  my  money — in  fact, 
that  most  of  it  would  revert  to  Sis  if  I  mar- 
ried against  your  wishes,  and  that  you  dis- 
liked her,  and  that  she  must  work  herself 
into  your  good  graces  before  we  could  think 
of  announcing  our  engagement." 

I  saw  right  off  that  he  had  told  Mabel 
Moore  the  same  thing,  and  that  was  why 
those  two  girls  had  been  so  blamed  polite  to 
me  the  night  before.  So  I  rounded  on  him 
sudden. 

"  You're  engaged  to  that  Miss  Moore,  too, 
aren't  you?  " 

"  I'm  afraid  so." 

"  Why  didn't  you  come  out  like  a  man  and 
say  so  at  first?  " 

"  I  couldn't,  Mr.  Graham.  Someways  it 
seemed  like  piling  it  up  so,  and  you  take 
such  a  cold-blooded,  unsympathetic  view  of 
these  things." 

284 


LETTERS  TO  HIS  SON 

"  Perhaps  I  do ;  yes,  I'm  afraid  I  do.  How 
far  are  you  committed  to  Miss  Churchill?  " 

Jack  cheered  right  up.  "  I'm  all  right 
there,  at  least.  She  hasn't  answered." 

"  Then  you've  asked?  " 

"  Why,  so  I  have ;  at  least  she  may  take  it 
for  something  like  asking.  But  I  don't  care ; 
I  want  to  be  committed  there;  I  can't  live 
without  her;  she's  the  only " 

I  saw  that  he  was  beginning  to  foam  up 
again,  so  I  shut  him  off  straight  at  the 
spigot.  Told  him  to  save  it  till  after  the 
ceremony.  Set  him  down  to  my  desk,  and 
dictated  two  letters,  one  to  Edith  Curzon 
and  the  other  to  Mabel  Moore,  and  made 
him  sign  and  seal  them,  then  and  there. 
He  twisted  and  squirmed  and  tried  to  wiggle 
off  the  hook,  but  I  wouldn't  give  him  any 
slack.  Made  him  come  right  out  and  say 
that  he  was  a  yellow  pup ;  that  he  had  made 
a  mistake;  and  that  the  stuff  was  all  off, 
though  I  worded  it  a  little  different  from 

285 


A  SELF-MADE  MERCHANT'S 

that.  Slung  in  some  fancy  words  and  high- 
toned  phrases. 

You  see,  I  had  made  up  my  mind  that  the 
best  of  a  bad  matter  was  the  Churchill  girl, 
and  I  didn't  propose  to  have  her  commit 
herself,  too,  until  I'd  sort  of  cleared  away 
the  wreckage.  Then  I  reckoned  on  copper- 
riveting  their  engagement  by  announcing  it 
myself  and  standing  over  Jack  with  a  shot- 
gun to  see  that  there  wasn't  any  more  non- 
sense. They  were  both  so  light-headed  and 
light- waisted  and  light-footed  that  it  seemed 
to  me  that  they  were  just  naturally  mates. 

Jack  reached  for  those  letters  when  they 
were  addressed  and  started  to  put  them  in 
his  pocket,  but  I  had  reached  first.  I  reckon 
he'd  decided  that  something  might  happen 
to  them  on  their  way  to  the  post-office;  but 
nothing  did,  for  I  called  in  the  butler  and 
made  him  go  right  out  and  mail  them  then 
and  there. 

I'd  had  the  letters  dated  from  my  house, 
and  I  made  Jack  spend  the  night  there.  I 
286 


LETTERS  TO  HIS  SON 

reckoned  it  might  be  as  well  to  keep  him 
within  reaching  distance  for  the  next  day  or 
two.  He  showed  up  at  breakfast  in  the 
morning  looking  like  a  calf  on  the  way  to 
the  killing  pens,  and  I  could  see  that  his 
thoughts  were  mighty  busy  following  the 
postman  who  was  delivering  those  letters. 
I  tried  to  cheer  him  up  by  reading  some 
little  odds  and  ends  from  the  morning  paper 
about  other  people's  troubles,  but  they 
didn't  seem  to  interest  him. 

"  They  must  just  about  have  received 
them,"  he  finally  groaned  into  his  coffee  cup. 
"  Why  did  I  send  them !  What  will  those 
girls  think  of  me!  They'll  cut  me  dead — 
never  speak  to  me  again." 

The  butler  came  in  before  I  could  tell  him 
that  this  was  about  what  we'd  calculated  on 
their  doing,  and  said :  "  Beg  pardon,  sir, 
but  there's  a  lady  asking  for  you  at  the  tele- 
phone." 

"  A  lady !  "  says  Jack.  "  Tell  her  I'm  not 
here."  Talk  to  one  of  those  girls,  even  from 
287 


A  SELF-MADE  MERCHANT'S 

a  safe  distance !  He  guessed  not.  He  turned 
as  pale  as  a  hog  on  ice  at  the  thought  of  it. 

"  I'm  sorry,  sir,"  said  the  man,  "  but  I've 
already  said  that  you  were  breakfasting 
here.  She  said  it  was  very  important." 

I  could  see  that  Jack's  curiosity  was  al- 
ready getting  the  best  of  his  scare.  After 
all,  he  threw  out,  feeling  me,  it  might  be 
best  to  hear  what  she  had  to  say.  I  thought 
so,  too,  and  he  went  to  the  instrument  and 
shouted  "  Hello !  "  in  what  he  tried  to  make 
a  big,  brave  voice,  but  it  wobbled  a  little  all 
the  same. 

I  got  the  other  end  of  the  conversation 
from  him  when  he  was  through. 

"Hello!  Is  that  you,  Jack?"  chirped 
the  Curzon  girl. 

"  Yes.    Who  is  that?  " 

"  Edith,"  came  back.  "  I  have  your  letter, 
but  I  can't  make  out  what  it's  all  about. 
Come  this  afternoon  and  tell  me,  for  we're 
still  good  friends,  aren't  we,  Jack?  " 

"  Yes — certainly,"  stammered  Jack. 
288 


LETTERS  TO  HIS  SON 

"  And  you'll  come?  " 

"  Yes,"  he  answered,  and  cut  her  off. 

He  had  hardly  recovered  from  this  shock 
when  a  messenger  boy  came  with  a  note,  ad- 
dressed in  a  woman's  writing. 

"  Now  for  it,"  he  said,  and  breaking  the 
seal  read : 

"'  Jack  dear:  Your  horrid  note  doesn't 
say  anything,  nor  explain  anything.  Come 
this  afternoon  and  tell  what  it  means  to 

MABEL/  " 

"  Here's  a  go,"  exclaimed  Jack,  but  he 
looked  pleased  in  a  sort  of  sneaking  way. 
"What  do  you  think  of  it,  Mr.  Graham?" 

"  I  don't  like  it." 

"  Think  they  intend  to  cut  up?  "  he  asked. 

"  Like  a  sausage  machine ;  and  yet  I  don't 
see  how  they  can  stand  for  you  after  that 
letter." 

"  Well,  shall  I  go?  " 

"  Yes,  in  fact  I  suppose  you  must  go;  but 
Jack,  be  a  man.  Tell  'em  plain  and  straight 
289 


A  SELF-MADE  MERCHANT'S 

that  you  don't  love  'em  as  you  should  to 
marry  'em ;  say  you  saw  your  old  girl  a  few 
days  ago  and  found  you  loved  her  still,  or 
something  from  the  same  trough,  and  stick 
to  it.  Take  what  you  deserve.  If  they  hold 
you  up  to  the  bull-ring,  the  only  thing  you 
can  do  is  to  propose  to  take  the  whole  bunch 
to  Utah,  and  let  'em  share  and  share  alike. 
That'll  settle  it.  Be  firm." 

"  As  a  rock,  sir." 

I  made  Jack  come  downtown  and  lunch 
with  me,  but  when  I  started  him  off,  about 
two  o'clock,  he  looked  so  like  a  cat  padding 
up  the  back-stairs  to  where  she  knows 
there's  a  little  canary  meat — scared,  but 
happy — that  I  said  once  more :  "  Now  be 
firm,  Jack." 

"  Firm's  the  word,  sir,"  was  the  resolute 
answer. 

"  And  unyielding." 

"  As  the  old  guard."  And  Jack  puffed 
himself  out  till  he  was  as  chesty  as  a  pigeon 
on  a  barn  roof,  and  swung  off  down  the 
290 


LETTERS  TO  HIS  SON 

street  looking  mighty  fine  and  manly  from 
the  rear. 

I  never  really  got  the  straight  of  it,  but  I 
pieced  together  these  particulars  later.  At 
the  corner  there  was  a  flower  store.  Jack 
stepped  inside  and  sent  a  box  of  roses  by 
special  messenger  to  Miss  Curzon,  so  there 
might  be  something  to  start  conversation 
when  he  got  there.  Two  blocks  farther  on 
he  passed  a  second  florist's,  turned  back  and 
sent  some  lilies  to  Miss  Moore,  for  fear  she 
might  think  he'd  forgotten  her  during  the 
hour  or  more  before  he  could  work  around 
to  her  house.  Then  he  chased  about  and 
found  a  third  florist,  from  whom  he  ordered 
some  violets  for  Miss  Churchill,  to  remind 
her  that  she  had  promised  him  the  first 
dance  at  the  Blairs'  that  night.  Your  Ma 
told  me  that  Jack  had  nice  instincts  about 
these  little  things  which  women  like,  and 
always  put  a  good  deal  of  heavy  thought 
into  selecting  his  flowers  for  them.  It's  been 
my  experience  that  a  critter  who  has  in^ 
291 


A  SELF-MADE  MERCHANT'S 

stincts  instead  of  sense  belongs  in  the 
bushes  with  the  dicky-birds. 

No  one  ever  knew  just  what  happened  to 
Jack  during  the  next  three  hours.  He 
showed  up  at  his  club  about  five  o'clock  with 
a  mighty  conceited  set  to  his  jaw,  but  it 
dropped  as  if  the  spring  had  broken  when 
he  caught  sight  of  me  waiting  for  him  in  the 
reading-room. 

"  You  here?  "  he  asked  as  he  threw  him- 
self into  a  chair. 

"  You  bet,"  I  said.  "  I  wanted  to  hear 
how  you  made  out.  You  settled  the  whole 
business,  I  take  it?  "  but  I  knew  mighty 
well  from  his  looks  that  he  hadn't  settled 
anything. 

"  Not — not  exactly — that  is  to  say,  en- 
tirely ;  but  I've  made  a  very  satisfactory  be- 
ginning." 

"  Began  it  all  over  again,  I  suppose." 

This  hit  so  near  the  truth  that  Jack 
jumped,  in  spite  of  himself,  and  then  he 
burst  out  with  a  really  swear.  I  couldn't 
292 


LETTERS  TO  HIS  SON 

have  been  more  surprised  if  your  Ma  had 
cussed. 

"  Damn  it,  sir,  I  won't  stand  any  more  of 
your  confounded  meddling.  Those  letters 
were  a  piece  of  outrageous  brutality.  I'm 
breaking  off  with  the  girls,  but  I've  gone 
about  it  in  a  gentler  and,  I  hope,  more  dig- 
nified, way." 

"  Jack,  I  don't  believe  any  such  stuff  and 
guff.  You're  tied  up  to  them  harder  and 
tighter  than  ever." 

I  could  see  I'd  made  a  bull's  eye,  for  Jack 
began  to  bluster,  but  I  cut  him  short  with : 

"  Go  to  the  devil  your  own  way,"  and 
walked  out  of  the  club.  I  reckon  that  Jack 
felt  mighty  disturbed  for  as  much  as  an 
hour,  but  a  good  dinner  took  the  creases 
out  of  his  system.  He'd  found  that  Miss 
Moore  didn't  intend  to  go  to  the  Blairs',  and 
that  Miss  Curzon  had  planned  to  go  to  a 
dance  with  her  sister  somewheres  else,  so 
he  calculated  on  having  a  clear  track  for  a 
trial  spin  with  Miss  Churchill. 

293 


A  SELF-MADE  MERCHANT'S 

I  surprised  your  Ma  a  good  deal  that  eve- 
ning by  allowing  that  I'd  go  to  the  Blairs' 
myself,  for  it  looked  to  me  as  if  the  finals 
might  be  trotted  there,  and  I  thought  I'd 
better  be  around,  because,  while  I  didn't  see 
much  chance  of  getting  any  sense  into  Jack's 
head,  I  felt  I  ought  to  do  what  I  could  on 
my  friendship  account  with  his  father. 

Jack  was  talking  to  Miss  Churchill  when 
I  came  into  the  room,  and  he  was  tending 
to  business  so  strictly  that  he  didn't  see  me 
bearing  down  on  him  from  one  side  of  the 
room,  nor  Edith  Curzon's  sister,  Mrs.  Dick, 
a  mighty  capable  young  married  woman, 
bearing  down  on  him  from  the  other,  nor 
Miss  Curzon,  with  one  of  his  roses  in  her 
hair,  watching  him  from  a  corner.  There 
must  have  been  a  council  of  war  between  the 
sisters  that  afternoon,  and  a  change  of  their 
plans  for  the  evening. 

Mrs.  Dick  beat  me  stalking  Jack,  but  I 
was  just  behind,  a  close  second.    He  didn't 
294 


"  Miss  Curzon,  with  one  of 
bis  roses  in  her  hair,  watching 
him  from  a  corner ^ 


LETTERS  TO  HIS  SON 

see  her  until  she  got  right  up  to  him  and 
rapped  him  on  the  arm  with  her  fan. 

"  Dear  Jack,"  she  says,  all  smiles  and 
sugar ;  "  dear  Jack,  I've  just  heard.  Edith 
has  told  me,  though  I'd  suspected  something 
for  a  long,  long  time,  you  rogue,"  and  she 
fetched  him  another  kittenish  clip  with  the 
fan. 

Jack  looked  about  the  way  I  once  saw  old 
Miss  Curley,  the  president  of  the  Good  Tem- 
plars back  in  our  town  in  Missouri,  look  at 
a  party  when  she  half-swallowed  a  spoonful 
of  her  ice  cream  before  she  discovered  that 
it  was  flavored  with  liquor. 

But  he  stammered  something  and  hurried 
Miss  Churchill  away,  though  not  before  a 
fellow  who  was  going  by  had  wrung  his 
hand  and  said,  "  Congratulations,  old  chap. 
Just  heard  the  news." 

Jack's  only  idea  seemed  to  travel,  and  to 
travel  far  and  fast,  and  he  dragged  his  part- 
ner along  to  the  other  end  of  the  room,  while 
295 


A  SELF-MADE  MERCHANTS 

I  followed  the  band.  We  had  almost  gone 
the  length  of  the  course,  when  Jack,  who 
had  been  staring  ahead  mighty  hard,  shied 
and  balked,  for  there,  not  ten  feet  away, 
stood  Miss  Moore,  carrying  his  lilies,  and 
blushing  and  smiling  at  something  young 
Blakely  was  saying  to  her. 

I  reckon  Jack  guessed  what  that  some- 
thing was,  but  just  then  Blakely  caught 
sight  of  him  and  rushed  up  to  where  he  was 
standing. 

"  I  congratulate  you,  Jack,"  he  said. 
"  Miss  Moore's  a  charming  girl." 

And  now  Miss  Churchill  slipped  her  hand 
from  his  arm  and  turned  and  looked  at  Jack. 
Her  lips  were  laughing,  but  there  was  some- 
thing in  her  eye  which  made  Jack  turn  his 
own  away. 

"  Oh,  you  lucky  Jack,"  she  laughed. 
"  You  twice  lucky  Jack." 

Jack  simply  curled  up :  "  Wretched  mis- 
take somewhere,"  he  mumbled.  "  Awfully 
hot  here — get  you  a  glass  of  water,"  and  he 
296 


LETTERS  TO  HIS  SON 

rushed  off.  He  dodged  around  Miss  Moore, 
and  made  a  flank  movement  which  got  him 
by  Miss  Curzon  and  safely  to  the  door.  He 
kept  on;  I  followed. 

I  had  to  go  to  New  York  on  business  next 
day.  Jack  had  already  gone  there,  bought  a 
ticket  for  Europe,  and  was  just  loafing 
around  the  pier  trying  to  hurry  the  steamer 
off.  I  went  down  to  see  him  start,  and  he 
looked  so  miserable  that  I'd  have  felt  sorry 
for  him  if  I  hadn't  seen  him  look  miserable 
before. 

"  Is  it  generally  known,  sir,  do  you 
think?  "  he  asked  me  humbly.  "  Can't  you 
hush  it  up  somehow?  " 

"Hush  it  up!  You  might  as  well  say 
'  Shoo ! '  to  the  Limited  and  expect  it  to  stop 
for  you." 

"  Mr.  Graham,  I'm  simply  heartbroken 
over  it  all.  I  know  I  shall  never  reach 
Liverpool.  I'll  go  mad  on  the  voyage  across, 
and  throw  myself  overboard.  I'm  too  deli- 
cately strung  to  stand  a  thing  of  this  sort." 


A  SELF-MADE  MERCHANT'S 

"Delicate  rats!  You  haven't  nerve 
enough  not  to  stand  it,"  I  said.  "  Brace  up 
and  be  a  man,  and  let  this  be  a  lesson  to  you. 
Good-bye." 

Jack  took  my  hand  sort  of  mechanically 
and  looked  at  me  without  seeing  me,  for  his 
grief-dimmed  eyes,  in  straying  along  the 
deck,  had  lit  on  that  pretty  little  Southern 
baggage,  Fanny  Fairfax.  And  as  I  started 
off  he  was  leaning  over  her  in  the  same  old 
way,  looking  into  her  brown  eyes  as  if  he 
saw  a  full-course  dinner  there. 

"  Think  of  your  being  on  board !  "  I  heard 
him  say.  "  I'm  the  luckiest  fellow  alive ;  by 
Jove,  I  am !  " 

I  gave  Jack  up,  and  an  ex-grass  widow  is 
keeping  him  in  order  now.  I  don't  go  much 
on  grass  widows,  but  I  give  her  credit  for 
doing  a  pretty  good  job.  She's  got  Jack  so 
tame  that  he  eats  out  of  her  hand,  and  so 
well  trained  that  he  don't  allow  strangers  to 
pet  him. 

I   inherited   one  Jack — I   couldn't  help 
298 


LETTERS  TO  HIS  SON 

that.  But  I  don't  propose  to  wake  up  and 
find  another  one  in  the  family.  So  you 
write  me  what's  what  by  return. 

Your  affectionate  father, 

JOHN  GRAHAM. 


No,  20 


FROM  John  Graham, 
at  the  Boston  House 
of  Graham  &  Co.,  to 
his  son,  Pierrepont,  at  the 
Union     Stock    Yards    in 
Chicago.    Mr.  Pierrepont 
has    told    the    old    man 
"what's   what"  and  re- 
ceived a  limited  blessing. 


XX 

/ 

BOSTON,  November  11,  189 — 
Dear  Pierrepont:  If  that's  what,  it's  all 
right.  And  you  can't  get  married  too  quick 
to  suit  the  old  man.  I  believe  in  short  en- 
gagements and  long  marriages.  I  don't  see 
any  sense  in  a  fellow's  sitting  around  on  the 
mourner's  bench  with  the  sinners,  after  he's 
really  got  religion.  The  time  to  size  up  the 
other  side's  strength  is  before  the  engage- 
ment. 

Some  fellows  propose  to  a  girl  before  they 
know  whether  her  front  and  her  back  hair 
match,  and  then  holler  that  they're  stuck 
when  they  find  that  she's  got  a  cork  leg  and 
a  glass  eye  as  well.  I  haven't  any  sympathy 
with  them.  They  start  out  on  the  principle 
that  married  people  have  only  one  meal  a 
day,  and  that  of  fried  oysters  and  tutti- 
frutti  ice-cream  after  the  theatre.  Natur- 
ally, a  girl's  got  her  better  nature  and  her 
best  complexion  along  under  those  cireum- 

3°3 


A  SELF-MADE  MERCHANT'S 

stances;  but  the  really  valuable  thing  to 
know  is  how  she  approaches  ham  and  eggs 
at  seven  A.  M.,  and  whether  she  brings  her 
complexion  with  her  to  the  breakfast  table. 
And  these  fellows  make  a  girl  believe  that 
they're  going  to  spend  all  the  time  between 
eight  and  eleven  p.  M.,  for  the  rest  of  their 
lives,  holding  a  hundred  and  forty  pounds, 
live  weight,  in  their  lap,  and  saying  that  it 
feels  like  a  feather.  The  thing  to  find  out 
is  whether,  when  one  of  them  gets  up  to 
holding  a  ten  pound  baby  in  his  arms,  for 
five  minutes,  he's  going  to  carry  on  as  if  it 
weighed  a  ton. 

A  girl  can  usually  catch  a  whisper  to  the 
effect  that  she's  the  showiest  goods  on  the 
shelf,  but  the  vital  thing  for  a  fellow  to  know 
is  whether  her  ears  are  sharp  enough  to  hear 
him  when  he  shouts  that  she's  spending  too 
much  money  and  that  she  must  reduce  ex- 
penses. Of  course,  when  you're  patting  and 
petting  and  feeding  a  woman  she's  going  to 
purr,  but  there's  nothing  like  stirring  her 

3°4 


LETTERS  TO  HIS  SON 

up  a  little  now  and  then  to  see  if  she  spits 
fire  and  heaves  things  when  she's  mad. 

I  want  to  say  right  here  that  there's  only 
one  thing  more  aggravating  in  this  world 
than  a  woman  who  gets  noisy  when  she's 
mad,  and  that's  one  who  gets  quiet.  The 
first  breaks  her  spell  of  temper  with  the 
crockery,  but  the  second  simmers  along 
like  a  freight  engine  on  the  track  beside 
your  berth — keeps  you  scared  and  ready  to 
jump  for  fear  she's  going  to  blow  off  any 
minute ;  but  she  never  does  and  gets  it  over 
with — just  drizzles  it  out. 

You  can  punch  your  brother  when  he 
plays  the  martyr,  but  you've  got  to  love  your 
wife.  A  violent  woman  drives  a  fellow  to 
drink,  but  a  nagging  one  drives  him  crazy. 
She  takes  his  faults  and  ties  them  to  him 
like  a  tin  can  to  a  yellow  dog's  tail,  and  the 
harder  he  runs  to  get  away  from  them  the 
more  he  hears  of  them. 

I  simply  mention  these  things  in  a  general 
way,  and  in  the  spirit  of  the  preacher  at  the 

3°5 


A  SELF-MADE  MERCHANT'S 

funeral  of  the  man  who  wasn't  "  a  profes- 
sor " — because  it's  customary  to  make  a  few 
appropriate  remarks  on  these  occasions. 
From  what  I  saw  of  Helen  Heath,  I  reckon 
she's  not  getting  any  the  best  of  it.  She's 
what  I  call  a  mighty  eligible  young  woman — 
pretty,  bright,  sensible,  and  without  any 
fortune  to  make  her  foolish  and  you  a  fool. 
In  fact,  you'd  have  to  sit  up  nights  to  make 
yourself  good  enough  for  her,  even  if  you 
brought  her  a  million,  instead  of  fifty  a 
week. 

I'm  a  great  believer  in  women  in  the  home, 
but  I  don't  take  much  stock  in  them  in  the 
office,  though  I  reckon  I'm  prejudiced  and 
they've  come  to  stay.  I  never  do  business 
with  a  woman  that  I  don't  think  of  a  little 
incident  which  happened  when  I  was  first 
married  to  your  Ma.  We  set  up  housekeep- 
ing in  one  of  those  cottages  that  you  read 
about  in  the  story  books,  but  that  you  want 
to  shy  away  from,  when  it's  put  up  to  you  to 
live  in  one  of  them.  There  were  nice  climb- 
306 


LETTERS  TO  HIS  SON 

ing  roses  on  the  front  porch,  but  no  running 
water  in  the  kitchen ;  there  were  a-plenty  of 
old  fashioned  posies  in  the  front  yard,  and 
a-plenty  of  rats  in  the  cellar ;  there  was  half 
an  acre  of  ground  out  back,  but  so  little  room 
inside  that  I  had  to  sit  with  my  feet  out  a 
window.  It  was  just  the  place  to  go  for  a 
picnic,  but  it's  been  my  experience  that  a 
fellow  does  most  of  his  picnicking  before 
he's  married. 

Your  Ma  did  the  cooking,  and  I  hustled 
for  things  to  cook,  though  I  would  take  a 
shy  at  it  myself  once  in  a  while  and  get  up 
my  muscle  tossing  flapjacks.  It  was  pretty 
rough  sailing,  you  bet,  but  one  way  and  an- 
other we  managed  to  get  a  good  deal  of  sat- 
isfaction out  of  it,  because  we  had  made  up 
our  minds  to  take  our  fun  as  we  went  along. 
With  most  people  happiness  is  something 
that  is  always  just  a  day  off.  But  I  have 
made  it  a  rule  never  to  put  off  being  happy 
till  to-morrow.  Don't  accept  notes  for  hap- 
piness, because  you'll  find  that  when  they're 

3°7 


A  SELF-MADE  MERCHANT'S 

due  they're  never  paid,  but  just  renewed  for 
another  thirty  days. 

I  was  clerking  in  a  general  store  at  that 
time,  but  I  had  a  little  weakness  for  live- 
stock, even  then;  and  while  I  couldn't  af- 
ford to  plunge  in  it  exactly,  I  managed  to 
buy  a  likely  little  shoat  that  I  reckoned  on 
carrying  through  the  Summer  on  credit  and 
presenting  with  a  bill  for  board  in  the  Fall. 
He  was  just  a  plain  pig  when  he  came  to  us, 
and  we  kept  him  in  a  little  sty,  but  we 
weren't  long  in  finding  out  that  he  wasn't 
any  ordinary  root-and-grunt  pig.  The  first  I 
knew  your  Ma  was  calling  him  Toby,  and 
had  turned  him  loose.  Answered  to  his  name 
like  a  dog.  Never  saw  such  a  sociable  pig. 
Wanted  to  sit  on  the  porch  with  us.  Tried 
to  come  into  the  house  evenings.  Used  to 
run  down  the  road  squealing  for  joy  when 
he  saw  me  coming  home  from  work. 

Well,  it  got  on  towards  November  and 
Toby  had  been  making  the  most  of  his  op- 
portunities. I  never  saw  a  pig  that  turned 


LETTERS  TO  HIS  SON 

corn  into  fat  so  fast,  and  the  stouter  he  got 
the  better  his  disposition  grew.  I  reckon  I 
was  attached  to  him  myself,  in  a  sort  of  a 
sneaking  way,  but  I  was  mighty  fond  of  hog 
meat,  too,  and  we  needed  Toby  in  the 
kitchen.  So  I  sent  around  and  had  him 
butchered. 

When  I  got  home  to  dinner  next  day,  I 
noticed  that  your  Ma  looked  mighty  solemn 
as  she  set  the  roast  of  pork  down  in  front 
of  me,  but  I  strayed  off,  thinking  of  some- 
thing else,  as  I  carved,  and  my  wits  were 
off  wool  gathering  sure  enough  when  I  said : 

"  Will  you  have  a  piece  of  Toby,  my 
dear?  " 

Well  sir,  she  just  looked  at  me  for  a  mo- 
ment, and  then  she  burst  out  crying  and  ran 
away  from  the  table.  But  when  I  went 
after  her  and  asked  her  what  was  the 
matter,  she  stopped  crying  and  was  mad  in 
a  minute  all  the  way  through.  Called  me 
a  heartless,  cruel  cannibal.  That  seemed 
to  relieve  her  so  that  she  got  over  her  mad 

3°9 


A  SELF-MADE  MERCHANT'S 

and  began  to  cry  again.  Begged  me  to  take 
Toby  out  of  pickle  and  to  bury  him  in  the 
garden.  I  reasoned  with  her,  and  in  the  end 
I  made  her  see  that  any  obsequies  for  Toby, 
with  pork  at  eight  cents  a  pound,  would  be  a 
pretty  expensive  funeral  for  us.  But  first 
and  last  she  had  managed  to  take  my  appe- 
tite away  so  that  I  didn't  want  any  roast 
pork  for  dinner  or  cold  pork  for  supper. 
That  night  I  took  what  was  left  of  Toby 
to  a  store  keeper  at  the  Crossing,  who  I 
knew  would  be  able  to  gaze  on  his  hams 
without  bursting  into  tears,  and  got  a  pretty 
fair  price  for  him. 

I  simply  mention  Toby  in  passing,  as  an 
example  of  why  I  believe  women  weren't 
cut  out  for  business — at  least  for  the  pork- 
packing  business.  I've  had  dealings  with  a 
good  many  of  them,  first  and  last,  and  it's 
been  my  experience  that  when  they've  got  a 
weak  case  they  add  their  sex  to  it  and  win, 
and  that  when  they've  got  a  strong  case  they 
subtract  their  sex  from  it  and  deal  with  you 


LETTERS  TO  HIS  SON 

N 

harder  than  a  man.  They're  simply  bound 
to  win  either  way,  and  I  don't  like  to  play 
a  game  where  I  haven't  any  show.  When 
a  clerk  makes  a  fool  break,  I  don't  want  to 
beg  his  pardon  for  calling  his  attention  to 
it,  and  I  don't  want  him  to  blush  and 
tremble  and  leak  a  little  brine  into  a  fancy 
pocket  handkerchief. 

A  little  change  is  a  mighty  soothing 
thing,  and  I  like  a  woman's  ways  too  much 
at  home  to  care  very  much  for  them  at  the 
office.  Instead  of  hiring  women,  I  try  to 
hire  their  husbands,  and  then  I  usually  have 
them  both  working  for  me.  There's  noth- 
ing like  a  woman  at  home  to  spur  on  a  man 
at  the  office. 

A  married  man  is  worth  more  salary  than 
a  single  one,  because  his  wife  makes  him 
worth  more.  He's  apt  to  go  to  bed  a  little 
sooner  and  to  get  up  a  little  earlier;  to  go 
a  little  steadier  and  to  work  a  little  harder 
than  the  fellow  who's  got  to  amuse  a  differ- 
ent girl  every  night,  and  can't  stay  at  home 

3IT 


A  MERCHANTS  LETTERS 

to  do  it.  That's  why  Fm  going  to  raise  your 
salary  to  seventy-five  dollars  a  week  the  day 
you  marry  Helen,  and  that's  why  I'm  going 
to  quit  writing  these  letters — I'm  simply 
going  to  turn  you  over  to  her  and  let  her 
keep  you  in  order.  I  bet  she'll  do  a  better 
job  than  I  have. 

Your  affectionate  father, 

JOHN  GRAHAM. 


THE  END 


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A  Companion  Siries  to  the  Beacon  Biographies 

THE  WESTMINSTER   BIOG- 
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are  gilt-topped,  and  have  a  cover  design  and  a  vignette  title- 
page  by  BERTRAM  GROSVENOR  GOODHUE.  Like  the  Beacon 
Biographies^  each  volume  has  a  frontispiece  portrait,  a 
photogravure,  a  calendar  of  dates,  and  a  bibliography  for 
further  reading. 

The  following  volume*  are  issued:  — 
Robert  Browning,  by  ARTHUR  WAUOM. 
Daniel  Defoe,  by  WILFRED  WHITTEN. 
Adam  Duncan  (Lord  Camperdown),  by  H.  W.  WILSON. 
George  Eliot,  by  CLARA  THOMSON. 
Cardinal  Newman,  by  A.  R.  WALLER. 
John  Wesley,  by  FRANK  BANFIELD. 

Price  per  volume,  cloth,  75c.  net}  lambskin,  $  I.  oonct. 
SMALL,  MAYNARD  &  COMPANY,  Publishers. 


THE  UNIVERSITY  LIBRARY 
UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA,  SANTA  CRUZ 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  DATE  stamped  below. 

SEP  3  088 


SEi 


50m-l,'69(J5643s8)2373 — 3A,1 


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